The Ghost of You
by Yanagi Uxinta
Summary: He knew he should have torn his old master's heart out when he had the chance. Now, Fenris and the woman he loves are paying the price for his folly. They are enslaved, powerless, but Hawke refuses to forget him...even if he has forgotten her.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, my second uploaded Dragon Age II fic, though I started writing this days before 'Another Option'. I seem to have a penchant for dark fics, it seems...anyway, unlike 'Another Option', this is intended to be a multi-chaptered fic from the start. I'll warn you now, there's spoilers for Fenris' story in Act III, so if you're not that far through the game, don't read any further! I'm not sure where the idea came from - it just grew in my mind somewhere, then decided to show itself. However, I do remember thinking that Danarius was, for such a feared magister of the Tevinter Imperium, quite easy to kill (not the whole fight, but Fenris just seems to punch through his neck a few times in the cutscene, and voila - dead magister). So I give you this. As ever, if you see any corrections that need to be made, or any other feedback, it is appreciated!

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns all characters and settings.**

* * *

><p>The sound of creaking timber and the slap of waves against heavy wood slowly woke her. For a moment, Eraya Hawke was thrown seven years into the past, back onto the ship from Ferelden to Kirkwall with the remnants of her family and the newly widowed Aveline, and the numerous other refugees. But, no. Mother was dead. Bethany was imprisoned in the Circle. Aveline was Guard Captain and remarried.<p>

So why was she on a ship?

Full consciousness eluded her; she couldn't drag her heavy eyelids open. It felt as though weights had locked them closed. She only had her thoughts and memories to rely on.

She'd been...in his mansion. Fenris' mansion.

_Fenris._

Dragging in a deeper, sea-salt saturated breath, Hawke opened her eyes, already moving her head to try and find the marked elf. They were on a ship, she noted, in the brig. The large moon's light cast a squared pattern across her face through the grid inlaid in the deck. The air was warm with closely packed bodies, and didn't smell too sweet. Each stray gust of sea breeze that swept in was a blessing.

She saw no sign of Fenris to her right, and felt her heart pick up its pace with worry.

"You're awake."

The low, resonant voice came from her left. Hawke sat up rapidly, spinning to face it and immediately listing to the side as the ship hit a large swell. His arm was there to steady her, the gleam of the lyrium under his skin reflecting the moonlight. The reflexive twitch at any unexpected touch had faded in the past few years, but now it returned before he quelled it and pulled her into a sitting position. He remained silent, allowing her to take in the scene. There were a lot of people in with them; many were elves. Others looked like refugees; their clothing patched and tatty, bearing the weary look of long-term travellers. Most people were asleep, lying curled on the floor or propped up against each other, but those that were awake eyed the two warily, barely disguised fear lurking in hopeless eyes.

"Fenris...where are we?" Hawke asked, holding her voice down so as not to wake the little elf girl just a few feet away.

His voice was similarly subdued, but held a bitter tone she'd not heard often in the past years.

"We are currently on a ship bound for Minrathous."

"Minrathous? But that's in the..." Hawke trailed off, realisation slowly dawning as memory returned fully. Fenris watched the shift in expression with his old eyes, the ones hardened against everything.

"The Tevinter Imperium. I assume you remember, now, what happened prior to our unwilling boarding of this ship?"

They'd been talking. Fenris – he'd not known what to do with himself after the fight in the Hanged Man. She'd told him that, whatever he did, she'd hoped to be with him. They'd finally closed that motionless void that remained from three years ago when he'd left. They'd been happy. But the footsteps...

_He growled against her mouth as they both glanced at the door to the room, closed by Varric as he and Aveline left. The quiet footsteps outside it came closer. He kissed her again, before breaking away to stalk towards the door. _

"_If Varric has interrupted us because he's forgotten his damned cards..." He muttered as he reached the door, gauntleted hand reaching for the handle._

_They'd frozen at the sight of the magister behind the door, his mocking smile paralyzing them both even as his soldiers stormed up the steps, the need for secrecy long gone._

She did. Maker, she did, though she wished she'd remained ignorant.

"_Danarius?_" Hawke whispered, in confusion. She'd seen the magister clearly, before the hopeless battle broke out. Their weapons weren't to hand, but they'd fought anyway. And all the while the magister had watched. She'd seen the grey eyes, the deep, fresh scars in his neck, his vicious smirk. But...

"But, Fenris, you _killed_ him!" She turned to him, to see his face clearly, his silver white hair gleaming in the pale light. His laugh was low, bitter.

"I did. I left him with fatal wounds. I don't understand it either. Maybe his blood magic was enough to keep him clinging to life for the few minutes it took us to leave. He must have had other slaves or soldiers with him; ones that didn't fight us. Bringing himself back from death's door would take a lot of blood sacrifices, but that's nothing to a Tevinter Magister if it will save his own hide. They must have aided him when we left." He breathed a low curse in Tevinter, leaning back against the mast and passing a hand over his eyes tiredly. "I knew I should have pulled that bastard's heart out of his chest and crushed it. Just to be sure. I was a fool to think such a small thing as death would prevent Danarius from hounding me," The heavy irony lining his tone twisted at Hawke's heart, a garrotte of love, fear and sympathy gradually tightening around the pounding muscle.

"No one could have predicted this, Fenris." She murmured, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his arm. He sighed, dropping his hand from kneading his forehead to grip her fingers tightly, gratefully, for a moment.

"What I don't know is why you are here. Why would Danarius take you too? I've been wondering that since I woke. You are nothing but a threat to him; one I thought he would kill at first chance. Why he chose to capture you instead worries me. None of my conclusions are...reassuring." Frustration seeped into his voice as his gauntleted hands curled into fists, his tormented eyes fixed on them.

A single trail of dread slipped down Hawke's spine, though no particular thought had triggered it. It was just a deep sense of unease, one she couldn't do anything about. Their weapons had been left in the mansion, she noticed, though Fenris could never be truly classed as 'unarmed' due to the abilities he'd gained from the lyrium markings. They were trapped in a ship in the middle of the ocean with slavers and a hull full of slaves, with no chance of escape that didn't mean suicide.

Again, Hawke glanced down at the sleeping elf girl. She couldn't be older than six.

Anger drove away the fear. Defiant, she raised her chin and summoned a cocky smile.

"Well, Danarius must have some sense. If he'd tried to separate us, _I_ would have torn his heart out; lyrium or not," She growled. Fenris just shook his head, barely able to conjure up a helpless smile at her attempts to distract him.

"Where is Isabela when her bouts of compassion are required?" He asked rhetorically, earning a half-hearted laugh from his partner. Neither of them smiled for long. The magnitude of the situation was sinking deeper into their bones, chilling their hearts. Despite the warmth of the brig, generated by so many bodies in close proximity, Hawke shivered unexpectedly. At his silent, only slightly hesitant invitation, she gladly rested against his shoulder, shifting slightly so that his armour didn't dig into her neck. The warmth of his arms contrasted with the coolness of the metal and the lines of lyrium. At first she'd been surprised to feel that the lyrium veins were cooler than the rest of his skin. Not drastically so, but noticeable. She was growing accustomed to it now; she expected the tendrils of cooler skin laid over warm muscle, though it was still a wonder to her that she'd gotten this close to him in the first place.

Her eyes darkened as she stared at the red band around his wrist, the torn sleeve of one of her armour undershirts that he'd torn – accidentally – and kept deliberately that night, years ago. That had been before his memories had flooded back and retreated like a wave on the shore, in those few precious hours of love and joy. She'd seen him then the way he could have been, had the threat of recapture not constantly hung over him. From its tattered, slightly faded state, he'd never removed it. Her pale hand rose to brush the soft cloth as her thoughts turned resentful. They'd had it. They had just regained that tentative happiness he'd sought, right when he thought he'd been freed of his past. Then it had burst in and overwhelmed them. It wasn't fair, she thought. He deserved more than these distant glimpses of a happy life, more than insights to what it must be to be truly free. A frustrated sigh fogged his dull armour; her warm breath reflecting off the metal and brushing back against her face. Hawke felt Fenris' head dip, turning to look down at the forlorn figure resting against his chest. She knew he was going to speak an instant before a sound left him; the low thrum in his chest alerted her.

"Eraya," That, if nothing else, told her they were in trouble. He very rarely called her by her first name. To everyone, it was always 'Hawke'. She tried to relax her suddenly tense muscles, listening to the silence of him hesitating, considering his words. "I-We are being taken to the Imperium. Danarius is...reclaiming me. I think..." He stopped again, finding it difficult to even consider it, let alone force the possibility into reality by naming it. And she'd looked so tired, so disheartened. Maker, he didn't want to worry her further, but...

"Fenris?" Her voice was soft, troubled. He glanced briefly at her, then away again. He didn't want to see the fear in her usually bold eyes. "You have always been brutally honest with me. Don't stop now. What is it?" He opened his surprised, concerned eyes and saw her looking up at him. There was dried blood in her hair, spatters of it across her face. The discolouration of a bruise bloomed, peeking out of her hairline, the injury that had dazed her before that last spell...the one that had stolen consciousness from both of them. Despite her injuries and his slowly building despair, her vibrant eyes were steady. As she'd told him years ago, she would share his burdens. She always did.

He took a deep breath, the words flowing from him as he exhaled.

"I think Danarius may remove my memories again." He sighed. Seeing her large eyes widen, he elaborated, tilting his head back to address the silent silver sentry in the night sky through the bars of their cage. "He knows I would never be obedient as I am now; I'd sooner turn my blade on him than use it to defend him. Without memories, I wouldn't go against him – I'd have no reason to. But I'd also forget you," He turned his sombre eyes back down to meet hers, the deep green depths looking almost black with sorrow in the dim light. Hawke shook her head slightly, in denial, refusal, she didn't know.

"No, Fenris. That won't happen. I won't let it!" She hissed forcefully, fingers curling in the neck of his armour, her dark brows drawn close as a flare of protective anger warmed her from the inside as well as out. He wrapped a hand – the one with the red band around the wrist – around hers, gently prying it free of his collar. His eyes were quenched. It was as though he'd already given up.

"If...when he does, Danarius will remove anything that may remind me of my past for a few days until the memories are truly locked away. If it is anything he deems unimportant, he will dispose of it." Holding her gaze, he slowly started to unwind the red cloth from his wrist.

"Don't. Please," Hawke whispered, trying to pull her arm away. He held onto it tightly, not letting it go. She watched helplessly as the band fell open and he started to retie it around her own arm, her resistance slowly crumbling. He gave her back the battered Amell crest that had rested faithfully on his hip for the past three years.

"I do not want Danarius to destroy these as though they're nothing. Keep them safe, Hawke. Promise me." It wasn't often he made demands of her, and when he did in the past, she agreed. This time she stared at the two relics of their brief happiness, already so far distant, before slowly lifting her head to meet his eyes again.

"I will, on one condition." She bargained. That drew a wry laugh out of him.

"Which is, Champion?" He asked, in his new, quelled voice.

"That I give them back to you." She said firmly. Immediately she saw the indecision in his eyes, but cut him off before he could object.

"_If_ Danarius removes your memories again, maybe seeing these will bring them back. You remembered your past before; why wouldn't you be able to again?" Defiant, she watched his lips twitch, as if to answer, then still as his own argument crumpled before he gave it.

"This is even assuming we see each other after we disembark," He managed finally, shaking his head in reluctant defeat. "Danarius may intend to sell you to the highest bidder, along with the rest of these slaves," An edge of anger sliced open his tone as he spoke, and a flutter of relief lightened Hawke's chest. He hadn't completely given in. He still had enough fight in him to feel protective. She'd never doubted he'd stopped, but it was calming for it to be confirmed.

Still. She saw an immediate flaw to his theory.

"I'm the Champion of Kirkwall. I seriously doubt Danarius will auction off such a valuable bragging point." The sarcasm in her voice didn't go unnoticed; Fenris snorted, the ghost of a laugh staggering the sound.

"Probably not. But answer me this: presuming he doesn't keep us separated on purpose, to avoid any trigger that may bring back my memories, what reason would I have to speak to you? I would be Danarius' pet bodyguard again. I don't know what tasks he would set you, but I doubt ours would coincide. When would you see me to give these back?" He asked, his tone bitter though there was a light in his eyes, even as the moon passed behind a bank of clouds, leaving them in total darkness. There was hope there.

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him, as if accepting a challenge.

"I'd make an opportunity. Find your quarters, wait for you. Or a simpler solution would be to go after Danarius – if I kill him, we would have a chance to escape-"

"_No!_" He cut her off, his voice sharp. Hawke stopped, as startled as some of the other slaves. The volume had disturbed some of the nearby sleepers. The little girl mumbled and curled into a tighter ball, a woman Hawke presumed to be her mother gently smoothed her hair to soothe her before shooting a fearful glance at the branded elf.

With a measured breath, Fenris visibly pulled his control back to himself and continued in a hushed whisper, his hands gripping her arms tightly as his moss green eyes bored into hers.

"You will not do that, do you understand? If you do that, I might-" He stopped, to disguise the catch in his voice as he fought to keep it level. "I might kill you. I _would_ kill you, because then you would just be another slave, another assassin to deal with. I wouldn't know you." He finished, brutally, in a bid to make her understand. Slowly, he released her as he saw comprehension breach her eyes. She stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, silent as her eyes lowered. A rope of remorse wound its way through his innards and constricted as he looked at her, hating that he'd doused her usual fire.

"Hawke..." She didn't look back up. Her eyes narrowed at some invisible insult on the floor metres distant, and she finally burst out in a quiet rage.

"I hate this! I hate not being able to do _anything_!" Her eyes shot back up to his then, burning with anger and desperation. "If I can't stop this from happening to you, then what good am I? What good is being 'The Champion of Kirkwall' if I can't even save you from that _bastard-_"

"Hawke."

His firm tone cut through her fury, silencing her. The belligerent look faded from her face as she registered the faint smile tugging at his mouth. She felt her face smoothen in shock. Despite everything, despite being shipped back to the chains of his master, he was smiling at her.

"That you care this much is more than enough. For years I have run alone, having only myself to rely on. To have someone as strong and proud and as beautiful as you ready to defend me, with her bare hands if need be," He brushed his thumb over the split skin of her knuckles, where she'd lashed out at the slavers with nothing but her fists after the broken wine neck she'd been using had shattered. "That means more to me than if you could single-handedly take over this ship and turn it back around." He meant it. Fenris wasn't one to tell white lies just to make someone feel better, and he wasn't changing his ways now. His forest green eyes were steady, sincere. Hawke offered up a small, helpless smile before sighing and shaking her head.

"Thank you, Fenris. Though the latter would be far more useful right now," Her mild amendment drew a dry chuckle from him, and a single nod of acknowledgement, if not agreement. He heard another sigh from his slight rogue, and glanced back at her solemn expression. She caught him looking, and raised her shoulders in question.

"What now then? How long is the voyage to Minrathous?" She asked, settling at his side again as he hummed in the back of his throat in thought.

"Two months, with favourable conditions and to dock occasionally to resupply. In adverse conditions it can be longer. I heard of one captain who left Minrathous for Kirkwall and didn't arrive at his destination until half a year later. He had a...run of bad luck, shall we say." There was a note of amusement in his tone. Hawke smiled slightly, intrigued.

"That sounds like a story. Do you know it?" She asked hopefully.

"You'll listen to anything to keep me talking, won't you?" He asked, recalling the long-ago conversation in Danarius' mansion when he'd, in his rather intoxicated relaxation, told her of the Fog Warriors. She'd coaxed him into the tale, not that he'd required much convincing. She'd told him she enjoyed listening to him talk, or something along those lines. He'd been content to share her company; enjoyed it even. He'd drank most of the bottles of Agreggio Pavali before she'd arrived; the taste had long since lost its character on his tongue, yet that final bottle had tasted richer than any of its predecessors. Maybe because he was sharing it with her.

She laughed, tugging him out of the pleasant memory.

"No, I am genuinely interested. And if you started talking about all the different ways to cook a nug, I would have to tell you to shut up," She retorted, drawing a surprised laugh from him, one that settled into a low murmur as he settled into the tale.

"Point taken. You wanted to hear of the captain's six month long journey? I only know parts of it from listening to Danarius' guests when I was required to stand in a corner and look intimidating, but from the little I know I have some suspicions that our dear pirate may have been involved."

"Isabela?" Hawke asked, surprised. He nodded, smiling.

"During one part of his voyage, in which he lost all of his men, hit several reefs and was beset upon by pirates numerous times, he was chased down by a black flagged ship. The captain of this ship was a 'siren', according to the man when his ship finally limped into port. He said she and her crew boarded his ship, and tricked him. Whilst the pirate captain..._distracted_ him for the night, her crew stole everything worth carrying from the ship. When he woke the next morning, she and the pirates were gone, leaving him just enough rations to make it to shore, and nothing else. Apparently the bed sheets had even been stolen from under him." He felt Hawke's shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and couldn't dampen his amused tone as he rounded off his story. "It makes for an entertaining tale, though I suspect it has been blown grossly out of proportion in its retelling. That particular chronicle of his voyage, however, I am inclined to believe,"

Hawke chuckled, turning her head into his chest to stifle the noise. When she lifted her head to look at him, her eyes had lost the hopeless cast, and were instead filled with mirth. He was glad he'd been able to drive the thought of their situation out of her mind, at least for now.

"I would bet a round at the Hanged Man that it was Isabela. We'll have to ask her when..." Her laughed faded rapidly in the wake of her shrinking smile. Her eyes flickered away for an instant, before returning with forced lightness in her tone. "...when we get back."

Fenris had, in the past, contemplated what it would feel like to his victims when he reached inside their chests and crushed their hearts. When he saw her determination to be brave despite everything, he thought that he'd felt a bit of what it must be like. His heart ached, and for an instant he wondered if Hawke had somehow gained the same abilities as he had.

Abruptly, he pulled her tighter against his chest, pressing his face against her hair. He heard her surprised question, but cut it off with the answer before she'd finished asking what was wrong.

"I'm...sorry. I'm sorry that this has happened to you," He whispered into the dark waves, hearing the agony in his own voice. Her arms stilled momentarily, then rushed around him as the surprise and compassion struck her.

"Do you know something, Fenris? I'm not," She murmured into his shoulder. She felt the astonishment jolt through him, and let him pull away to look at her closely as if scrutinising her for any head injury he hadn't noticed. To disprove his concerns, she looked at him steadily. "I'm sorry that you are being taken back to the Imperium, but I'm not sorry they brought me too. What you told me at the mansion, that you would walk by my side into the future, no matter what it held...that applies to you too. If they had only taken you, I would have gone to Minrathous anyway, to get you back."

'_You wouldn't be saying that if you knew the life you'll have.'_ Instantly, Fenris berated himself for the thought. He knew her better than that – she didn't say things she didn't mean, but he still found it hard to comprehend that he meant so much to someone because of something other than an investment laid beneath his skin. The mere concept made responding to her sincerity difficult, so instead of gawping at her like a fool, he closed the distance between them one again with a swift kiss before holding her tightly. Her felt her laugh, softly, and murmur into his arm.

"Besides, now I'm with you, escaping should be twice as easy,"

He frowned, looking down at Hawke without letting go of her.

"Escape?" He even sounded doubtful to his own ears. She nodded, however, unperturbed.

"I have no intention of becoming a slave, Fenris, nor of letting you experience that again. We may have the entire Imperium against us, but we are _not_ staying in Danarius' grasp," She said firmly, as if remaining free was as simple as making the decision.

He hesitated, finding it difficult to believe her optimism.

"Hawke, escaping won't be as easy as simply walking away, especially with me at your side. Danarius will be loathe to let me slip away again-" She cut him off, though her voice remained low, almost neutral. Had he not seen the open, honest look in her eyes, he wouldn't have recognised her words as a question, but an accusation.

"Why are you so quick to make excuses to avoid fighting anymore?" He opened his mouth, only to close it again and bow his head, quelling the snake of defensive anger that coiled in his gut. Had this happened even a month ago, he would have acted on it. Now, he tried to find an answer that was more than barbed words to keep her at bay.

"When I arrived in Kirkwall...I think I was already tiring of the hunt. I'd become lazy, ignoring the signs that the slavers were catching up and instead passing them off as a fugitive's paranoia. Meeting you, and seeing someone so willing to help, despite the danger...it gave me some of my old determination back. But this..." He gestured at their surroundings, and even that one wave of an expressionless arm told Hawke that his hope was waning. "This is too much. I'm tired, Hawke. I was ready to make a final stand in Kirkwall. This just makes me feel that you simply delayed the inevitable for a few blissful years," His voice was low, remorseful. Resigned. He'd already given in to the idea of being a slave again. She should have realised when he'd returned the red band, and the crest. Maybe...maybe it was even a relief. Soon he would forget everything, and have his life dictated for him. He'd hate it, but accept it, because it would be all he knew. It wouldn't include her, and her well-intended, false hope of a free life.

The very thought made the stoic woman feel like crying. A feeling of desolation settled, heavy and daring to be permanent, in her chest. She could see the same weight nesting behind his eyes; a smug gargoyle slowly suffocating them both.

"You wanted me to promise you to keep these safe, Fenris," She held up her wrist, to show him the band and the shield she held. Her voice shook, threatening to break, but she stubbornly clung to its semblance of steadiness. "I'll promise you something else as well. I promise you, Fenris, that this will not be the end of us. We will be free again one day; no matter how long I have to fight to get us there, with or without your help," His eyes were wide at the vehemence of her words, but they closed tightly as if pained. He was whispering something under his breath, as one would use a mantra to distract them from some agony. He was shaking his head as she made it out.

"Please don't," The same two words she'd said to him before making her first promise. "Please, please don't. I don't want to see you hurt trying to fulfil an impossible promise," He hated how weak he sounded, but he would willingly take any humiliation, any amount of torment for his breach in composure to keep her away from all of this, out of Danarius' cold grip. He felt a reassuring warmth suddenly press against his side. Fenris opened his eyes and looked down at the brave woman who didn't even blame him for dragging her into a life of slavery, and in something akin to wonder, he stared at the tears lining her lashes, the black spears refusing to let them fall. All either of them could do was hold each other to offer what scant comfort they could, wordlessly waiting out the rest of the long night and praying for some brief respite in slumber as they rested in each other's tight embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for all the great feedback you've given me! I'm not as sure about this chapter as the first one, but the idea was stuck in my head so I went with it. This would have been uploaded yesterday, if not for the uploading problems the site was having. As ever, feedback and constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: Characters and settings belong to Bioware.**

* * *

><p>The following weeks were trying, to say the least. Hawke had some experience with long sea voyages, but her trip from Gwaren to Kirkwall had been...civil, in a way. They'd been provided with decent food, twice a day, enough for everyone to have at least a few bites. Privacy had been lacking, obviously, but short of the few men who seemed intent on making life uncomfortable until Hawke and Aveline had had 'words' with them, everyone had minded their own business as much as possible in those cramped quarters. People did get sea-sick, but they were allowed up on deck to try and keep the hold as sanitary as possible.<p>

This was worse. Far worse. People died; from injury, from illness, or even in fights. Often the bodies were left for a day or two before being removed. If you were ill, you simply had to try and restrict the contents of your stomach to a corner and hope people didn't comment on the acrid smell. Their food consisted of the scraps from the crew's meals, thrown through the grid that allowed sunlight into the hold when the sailors deigned to bring parts of their meal from the table. The scraps were fought for; it very quickly became apparent that the mentality of the slaves was to lookout for themselves only. The few times the slaves were actually fed en masse, the food was old and stale; they rarely had meat, what fruit they were given was overripe or starting to spoil.

The first day, Hawke and Fenris had remained in place, not yet feeling the bite of hunger. The mother with the young child had cast a torn glance between her child and the food falling through the ceiling. Her hesitation cost them a meal. The following day, when their breakfasts in their mansions had long since become just a memory, Hawke and Fenris weighed into the brawl over the fractured loaves of bread poked idly between the bars of their cage. When the crowd had abated and they'd reclaimed their position against the mast, fistfuls of bread in hand, they'd seen the mother hugging her daughter, trying to shush the child's quiet, hungered keening. Hawke had started to reach out, willing to go hungry for another day, but Fenris beat her to it. He'd stood, taken the few steps towards the pair, and knelt, hesitantly holding out his ragged half loaf. Hawke knew he was capable of being gentle, though he rarely showed it, but even she was surprised at his small, almost fond smile when the little girl eagerly took the food from his hands, showing none of her mother's fear of the strange elf's markings. The child looked at the food in her hands as if it were all the gold in the world, then promptly threw her arms around Fenris' startled neck. Hawke had to suppress a laugh as he toppled from his crouch, sitting down with a thump and a bewildered look for help in her direction. She just waved at him, leaving him to uncertainly pat the child's coppery hair and mutter an awkward 'you're welcome' as her mother gently prised her away, her smile wiping away her concern as they both thanked the lanky elf as he regained his feet, looking supremely awkward and almost as if he wished he'd stayed where he was. He'd hurried back to Hawke's side to see her amused grin and accept the proffered bread she'd snatched.

"Next time, I'll let you be mobbed by the miniature Aveline over there," He grumbled, rubbing his neck and feigning disgruntlement. Hawke just laughed, shook her head and let him pretend his stoic reputation was still intact. The only resemblance between the slight elvhen child and the Captain of the Guard was their bright hair. Still, a wordless agreement formed between the two of them – when food appeared, Fenris and Hawke would see how much they could scrounge, and distributed their rations between the four of them. The young mother –Atisha – tried to refuse the food since she had no way to repay them, but the third time that happened and she failed to scavenge food on her own, being too soft to make any headway in the brawl over the meagre scraps, Fenris simply bypassed her and handed the bruised apple to Sulahn, her daughter. Realising that these two unusual fighters were not about to stand by and watch her small family starve, Atisha gave in with good grace and what seemed like endless thanks.

Years of fighting in the darkened streets of Kirkwall had given Hawke and Fenris a good grasp of simple street fighting. The fights in the hold were a level below that in skill, and almost all of their fellow captives were weaker than they. The gap in skill and strength level practically guaranteed that after each donation of table scraps, the two walked away with enough food for their small party. After the first few weeks, the other prisoners had noticed and, finally, taken action.

It happened during their second real feeding – baskets of food tossed into the hold, of varying quality. None were the best, but even the crushed slop from the bottom of the baskets was growled over. When the slavers saw fit to feed them properly, there was usually enough for the desperate prisoners to grab some, give it to a partner, then delve back in for seconds. Not many utilised this tactic, but Atisha and Sulahn would wait with the first lot of food until their providers returned and they could split the meal evenly. However, when the Hawke glanced through the squabbling crowd on the sixteenth day, she saw one of the few humans who looked close to healthy gleefully tugging the food out of Sulahn's slim hands; Atisha's already tucked under his arm. A rapidly reddening mark marred the woman's cheek; it was obvious that the man had hit her. Hawke prodded Fenris and nodded in the direction of the confrontation as the two fighters drew closer, the human's words carried to them in the slowly growing quiet.

"Why should you get two pet mabari to hunt your food for you? Why should you have an easy ride while the rest of us have to fight for our food?" Hawke glanced towards Fenris, but the elf had already left her side, stepping silently around, skirting through the crowd to circle behind the cocky human. Taking this as her cue, Hawke stepped forward, ignoring the sudden hush of the expectant crowd. A shadow passed overhead; some of the guards were watching, mistrustful of the abrupt silence of their slaves. Wordlessly, Hawke knelt next to Atisha and gently examined the blooming bruise on her cheek. Despite the woman's quiet demeanour, there was a stubborn pride in the lift of her chin as she levelly stared at her tormentor. Sulahn was crying quietly, hugging her mother. The oaf standing over them was struck silent for a moment, gaping at the distinctive armour Hawke was clad in. As a Kirkwaller, he recognised it. Whispers were already circulating as people took their first good look at her.

"The Champion of Kirkwall," Hawke looked up at the scorning laugh the man gave. "Well, she can't be much of a Champion if she's stuck here with the rest of us low lives!" He shouted, throwing his spoils to an accomplice behind him. The smaller man was already looking as though he regretted his part in this folly. "Especially since she seems so eager for her new life. We're all slaves here, but this one is already the slave of a slave! How can she-" His voice cut off abruptly, the corded, lyrium scarred arm wrapped around his neck choking his words.

"Just think; if you'd kept your vile mouth shut, human, you might have survived this journey," Fenris snarled, the veins of lyrium in his arms burning blue. Realising what was about to happen, Hawke dove for Sulahn and ensured her face was well and truly hidden against her mother's shoulder as, with a familiar, sickening crunch, Fenris' other hand protruded through the man's chest, the frantically beating heart pulsing between his fingers, fractured ribs punching through his skin. Accompanied by the sound of screaming bystanders, grinding bone and the suction of clinging organs, Fenris snapped his arm out of the body, tearing the fluttering muscle free of its bloody tethers. The body dropped, the heart following as Fenris discarded it. The crowd had backed as far away from him as possible, leaving the three elves, sole human and single corpse in an empty circle. Hawke could hear the guards shouting, but it would take time for them to pull the grate aside and climb down into the hold to restore order. In the time left, Fenris stooped to tear a rag from the dead man's shirt and wiped his arm clean before turning to his wide-eyed, cowering audience.

"These two elves are under our protection." He told them, his low voice ringing out to reach every ear. With a whisper to the little girl to keep her eyes closed, Hawke left her in the arms of her shaking mother and went to stand by his side, taking her turn to address the terrified slaves before them.

"Yes, we give Atisha and Sulahn _half_ of our food, and when there is enough as there is today, we give them a full share. But they have never received more than what those of you who could fight for food did; if anything they ate less. We provide for them because otherwise they would have starved because they could not compete with those of you who brawl, even kill over scraps like starving dogs," She looked around the gathering and saw some ashamed faces. Deaths had already occurred in the hold, more than one down to fights over food, and people knew it. She felt Fenris' green gaze on her, and met it squarely.

"We may all be destined for the slave market when we dock in Minrathous, but that does not mean we are willing to fall into that role. Helping another person who cannot help themselves is not the mark of a slave; it is a sign of compassion – something that is apparently sorely lacking on this ship," Hawke continued, her voice raised to the audience but her eyes still holding Fenris'. She saw surprise dance there, before it merged into respect and flowed into a challenging grin. Following on the tail of her speech, he too turned to the slaves, singling out the man that held their food.

"Share that out with those that have none. We have what we need." As the man hurried to obey, Fenris raised his head to the others, speaking to them all. Despite the open fear that had bled from their eyes, they now watched him closely, with stirrings of what could have been respect and – maybe – hope.

"If you want to survive this voyage, the only way is to cooperate, not turn on each other. I won't lie; a slave's life is rarely easy. Many of you will find that companionship gives the magisters something to hold over you; and you would be right. But it also means you have someone to defend you, and someone to defend. I have been a slave before," This announcement caused some stunned whispers, wide-eyed surprise. No doubt these people couldn't imagine such a terrifying warrior being bound by anyone. Fenris gave a grim smile. Poor, ignorant fools. They'd learn. "I had no one like that; I felt that having no ties to anyone would only spare me additional pain. I never realised until I was free that having someone I trust implicitly at my back would be a comfort, no matter the consequences," He'd turned to look at her as his voice softened, holding her in place with that steady, proud stare of his, the vestiges of a smile lingering around his mouth. Hawke couldn't help but smile back, her heart ready to swell out of her chest as she subtly linked her fingers with his. He held onto them with surprising strength, and she realised just how difficult this was for him. He was advocating something he'd believed foolish for so many years, to so many people. It would be good advice for some; bad for others, and he was excruciatingly aware of the consequences of both. In the hopeful quiet that followed, Hawke realised she couldn't hear the guards anymore; and cautiously glanced skywards. Shadows hovered over the grid, one silhouette standing out from the rest. It didn't share their armour, instead it wore robes. Hawke couldn't make out any facial features, but the light that touched the edges of the man's head showed his hair to be grey, and outlined his beard.

Lowering her eyes, she caught Fenris in the same action. He nodded in grim affirmation. Danarius was watching them.

She gave his gauntleted fingers a reassuring squeeze with her own before he took a daring breath and addressed the slaves directly once more. What he said made Hawke gawp in disbelief.

"We are bound for the Tevinter Imperium – Minrathous in particular. This is the nation that Shartan and other slaves helped overturn; the city where Andraste, an escaped slave, was burned. Do you think any of that could have happened if people were fighting each other? If you want to reclaim your freedom, you have to band together to fight for it – not isolate yourselves and suffer your fate in silence," The tense, singing moment of shock broke as the guards above them started shouting and tackling the grid in earnest. Above the sound, Hawke heard the magister's voice clearly, calling Fenris. Both of their heads snapped up to look at him. He was shouting in Tevinter, so Hawke looked quickly to Fenris for clarification. He looked drawn; his jaw tight, but gave an ironic snort before translating for her.

"He is demanding I stop inciting rebellion amongst his cargo," He explained, though she could see the wariness behind the amused facade in his eyes.

"The second Shartan," Hawke quipped as they grabbed Atisha and Sulahn and dragged them clear of the entrance to the hold before the guards dropped down. The two elves blended rapidly with the panicked crowd as Fenris and Hawke whirled back on the guards, not giving the slavers time to use the whips they were removing from their belts. Fenris phased straight through the first two, leaving the mangled bodies to drop as he spun in the tight space to face the next wave. These were more cautious than the last, keeping their eyes on the marked elf. He just smirked and raised his eyebrows to a place just behind them. They hadn't even finished turning when the Champion leapt into a spinning kick, the pointed sabaton protecting her foot impacting the first slaver's temple. He dropped as though suspended by strings that had suddenly been cut, leaving Hawke free to snatch up his blades and spin to parry the first blow of his fellow guard. Fenris looted one of the first men's blades – why he had drawn a whip when he carried a great sword on his back, the elf did not know – and dove into the fray.

It was almost simple, after that. The pair had fought numerous slavers on the sands of the Wounded Coast and the caves that lined it; in the tunnels beneath Dark Town. They knew how the slavers fought, and how each other fought. They were veterans in this bloody dance, equal partners that knew when to press a lead and when to bow away. The sound of sundered flesh and dying screams and their own drumming hearts were the instruments, the harmony and symphony that they responded to. She dropped to one knee to take out a hamstring as his blade whistled over her head to remove that of the man trying to stab her from behind. She twisted under his outstretched arm to bury a dagger deep in a slaver's gut before he could cleave Fenris in two.

Dimly, they became aware of some of the other slaves grappling with the guards, some with smuggled weapons, most with their bare hands. Danarius was still above them, shouting. He didn't want them killed. The normal slaves he didn't care about, but Fenris and Hawke...he wanted them alive. In the chaos, Hawke caught her lover's eye. They exchanged a meaningful look; a whole conversation in just a momentary glance.

They were going to fight until the last guard was dead, or force the magister's hand. He would rather they die than his life be threatened, after all.

Something shot past Hawke's eyes, tearing a hole in her hair. The crossbow bolt slammed into the floor. The archers had arrived.

A quick glance between shoving her blades backwards into a slaver's stomach and slashing one across an exposed throat told her that the other slaves had been subdued; either killed, beaten or unconscious. Though it had cost lives, Hawke couldn't help but feel some small satisfaction that Danarius' investment was being eroded.

Suddenly, something akin to a small boulder slammed into her stomach, knocking her onto her back and stealing the breath from her. She heard Fenris curse, and managed to look through bleary eyes at the mages beside the archers, all now aiming at the two slaves that refused to be beaten.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed past the numbness in her lungs and stood, ignoring her body's panicked screaming that she wasn't breathing even though she knew she was. Her breath returned to her as she swung at the unprotected back of a slaver trying to hem Fenris into a corner. Another arrow thudded, dangerously close to her heel. The next one went through her arm as she plunged the daggers into one of the remaining slavers. The injured arm released its blade as she gave a sharp shout of agony, something the slavers interpreted as a weakness. One of them grabbed her from behind, attempting to subdue her. She introduced her remaining blade to his innards and he dropped her, his intestines spilling out and tangling around her feet.

She landed in a crouch she had to leap from as the body fell towards her, but his organs twisted around her ankles and brought her back to the floor of the hold, the corpse lying heavily across her. She heard the reflexive tensing and releasing of a bowstring, and then an arrow pounded through her shoulder and into the floor, pinning her on her stomach as she screamed.

The last slaver in the hold crumpled and the marked elf started towards her, concern and anger warring in his eyes, but Fenris was drawn to a halt by a warning arrow landing in front of him. His name drew his eyes to his old master and a snarl from his lips.

Danarius gestured at the taut bowstrings and wary mages beside him. All were directed at Hawke's back.

"I'm loathe to lose such a valuable slave, but if you do not cooperate, Fenris, I will order for her to be put down," Hawke growled at the implications behind his words.

"I'm no animal to be slaughtered, you bastard," She spat, as she gave a wrench that pulled the arrow up out of the floor, splinters scattering as the backward facing tines of the arrow head tore the wounded floor up further. Hawke knew she wouldn't be able to pull it out of her shoulder backwards without removing a large chunk of flesh with it.

"No," Danarius mused, flat grey eyes watching her with interest as she twisted beneath the corpse and glared up at him, pain baring more of her teeth than she would have in simple revulsion. "You are a slave. You have more worth to me alive than dead, but you have no more value than any other live animal,"

She heard an answering snarl from her right.

"Shut your mouth, Danarius!" Fenris shouted, the familiar blue glow lighting his veins as he struggled to hold back his fury.

From the assembled slavers and mages, even the prisoners huddled in the back of the hold; there was a collective gasp of shock. No doubt these people had never heard a slave issue an order to a magister, or even heard someone of supposed lower status raise their voice to the mages perceived to be their betters.

'_Get used to it,'_ Hawke thought grimly, as the uproar began. Despite his lackeys shouting angrily into the hold at the daring elf, Danarius was quiet, his eyes calculating. Once again they came to rest on Hawke. She braced herself as she saw his gloating lips move in a quiet order to the bowman beside him, throwing herself to the side to reduce the injury from another pierced shoulder to a shallow gash in her arm.

This time Fenris ignored the arrows clattering around him, closing the distance between them in three quick strides and dropping to kneel in front of her, shoving the dead slaver off her with ease. He sent a quick assessing glance to the newest future scar on her arm before turning his attention to the arrow in her shoulder, ignoring demands for him to move from the guards. The two were just outside the square of sunlight; they weren't surrounded. The archers would have great difficulty reaching her around Fenris.

That didn't mean she liked him acting as an elvhen shield.

"Fenris, don't," She whispered, her good hand gripping his arm. He spared her eyes an impatient glance before uttering an advanced apology snapping the arrow close to her skin, waiting until she'd hissed and cursed and attempted to relax the muscle around the wound before responding, partly to distract her from him reaching around her to grip what was left of the arrow, ready to pull it out.

"Though he's gravely mistaken, Danarius values me far more than you. I doubt he'd want his investment shot full of holes just to make a point," He murmured to her, keeping his voice too low for his master to hear. There was a note of his old sarcasm in his words, though Hawke sensed it was more in an attempt to reassure her than from genuine amusement at their situation.

"And I don't want to risk him changing his mind. I-" Their hushed argument was cut short by Fenris abruptly tugging the bolt out of her shoulder. He just smirked past the guilty writhing in his gut as she swore creatively at him, knowing she only meant a bit of it. She fell quiet only at Danarius' impatient sigh and the reflexive tensing of Fenris' muscles at the sound of his master's voice.

"I'll only warn you this once, my rebellious pet. Move, Fenris," The magister ordered. For a single moment, Hawke thought Fenris was going to obey as he hesitated, indecision warring in his face. Then he turned without giving the archers a clear shot at his Champion and met the flat eyes of his old master. The phrase he delivered was in Arcanum – the language of the Tevinter Imperium – so Hawke understood none of it. It was difficult to misunderstand its meaning, however, since the guards started shouting in outrage at Fenris again, and this time a flash of anger animated Danarius' face before he wrestled it under control.

"I had hoped you wouldn't be this difficult, Fenris, though I anticipated some problems with the woman who duelled the Arishok to the death," He shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "Send them to sleep. _Only_ sleep," He spoke to a point a few feet behind them. Fenris whirled, whilst Hawke tried to twist enough to see behind her without sending a lance of pain through her upper body. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw the demon coalesce, rising from the ground. She recognised a sloth demon from her venture into the Fade after the dreamer boy, Feynriel. She reached for a dagger with her good hand and Fenris rose, no doubt to rush the demon. He barely straightened his knees before staggering back to them, the sword dropping from his suddenly clumsy hands. Hawke fared no better, her vision dancing as she felt an enforced sleep rushing up on her. She only realised she'd collapsed when a spike of pain shot through her shoulder as the still painful area smacked into the hard floor, forcing her onto her side in an uncoordinated attempt to avoid the pain. Almost numb, she was aware of a weight falling across her legs and saw a glint of white hair as Fenris slumped next to her, his green eyes already fogging over but his arms still trying to push himself up to defend them both.

They lost consciousness before Danarius could give the order for the two to be brought up out of the hold.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry for the slower update, guys. I hit the last week of Spring break and realised I'd not done any work. At all. So I've been rushing for the past couple of weeks, catching up on work I'd not done and what have you. I'll warn you now; updates won't be as frequent because my exams start at the end of next month (god help me) and last for just over a month, so I'm going to be doing a lot of extra work and a lot less writing, unfortunately. Once my exams are done, however, I'll be back to tormenting these lovely characters Bioware has given us. Because I'm nice like that.

**This chapter is one of the reasons this fic is rated M** - for violence and swearing and (mild?)gore, so if any of that may upset/offend you, please read with caution.

As ever, thanks to all my readers and reviewers, your feedback and help is wonderful and always appreciated. I'll just throw in the **Disclaimer** **(nothing is mine)** and let you get on with the chapter!

* * *

><p>Danarius may have ordered the sloth demon to send them to sleep only, but when she woke up, a scream clawing at her throat, Hawke was almost certain that the monster had played a part in her nightmares. Her family, all gathered round, each as she last saw them. Her father, pale and gaunt from his illness. Carver, blood matting his dark hair, his skull partially caved in, his chest cavity torn open. Mother's face on another woman's body, with someone else's hands and yet another's skin, her eyes faded and bleak. Bethany, wearing circle robes. The sadness was there, but the relief she'd also shown the day the Templars took her away was gone; anger in its place. There were serpentine manacles circling her wrists; no doubt symbolic of her imprisonment.<p>

They all blamed her; for not keeping them safe, for letting him run out foolishly, for not walking her through the dangerous streets, for not taking her out of the Templar's reach below ground.

Hawke tried to move towards them, to apologise, to embrace them all one last time, but an invisible hand crushed her throat; she couldn't talk. Roots of iron twisted out of the ground and around her legs; she couldn't move.

Her family grew more distant, their accusations louder and more cutting. Then the fifth voice joined; dreamy, unhinged. Hawke jolted; her father and brother had faded, Quentin replacing them, giggling over the resurrection of his dead wife, his hand on the shoulder her mother's face was sewn to. He'd failed, he said. It had been the perfect body, but the soul wasn't there. He'd start again, he said, and he had the perfect skeleton for his wife's third body. His hand rose to grasp Bethany's shoulder, and Hawke saw the same grey fog in her sister's eyes, the stitches weaving their way across her skin.

Screaming, the sound dim and hoarse, as if from far away, Hawke lunged forward, suddenly able to move. Her mother and sister vanished and she slammed against Quentin, her hands scrabbling for a purchase around his neck. He hadn't stopped laughing, but then the voice changed, regained the edge of sanity and the bite of arrogance. A grey beard brushed her fingers. The hands that rose to pull hers away had scars across their wrists. Confusion spiked through her fury when she realised she was attacking Danarius, not Quentin.

His shove threw her off-balance, but he kept hold of one of her wrists, drawing a dagger with his free hand.

"It's a shame. Such a waste," He shook his head in mock regret, his eyes mirroring the appreciative leer she'd seen him wear in the Hanged Man. Then he buried the dagger in her side and dropped her.

Her breath was slowing, though she didn't seem to be having trouble drawing it. Funny, she knew being stabbed should hurt, but there was nothing. This was almost peaceful. She hadn't even felt it. Maybe he'd missed?

Someone was there, kneeling next to her. She almost smiled to see Fenris, though he hadn't seen the blood spreading across her chest – his face was curious, looking at her the way a puzzled pup looks at something new and potentially exciting.

"Who is she, master?" That detached curiosity scared her, as did his ready submission to the magister, still standing off to the side.

"Just another slave, Fenris. Kill it – put it out of its misery,"

It was then that Hawke panicked.

_Fenris, don't – this won't kill me. Just get me to Anders._ She couldn't speak; simply gape at him, mouth moving hopelessly. He gave her an oddly pitying look, as one would a dying animal, drawing a small blade as he did so.

_No, Fenris. Look at me. Look at me!_ He was, but, Maker, there was no recognition there. He placed the blade at an angle against her ribs, ready to drive it up and into her heart. Some deep, instinctive knowledge told her that he would succeed where Danarius had failed.

_Fenris, no, no!_ The blade went in. Hawke shot bolt upright, a high keening in her throat as the soundless scream in her dream tried to break free in the real world.

Her eyes darted around the dark room she was in, and for a moment panic threatened her fully. She didn't know where she was. The ship, but this wasn't the hold. A cabin, she realised, as the adrenaline slowly died in her blood and she bowed her head to her knees, weak with relief. She was free of the dream.

It took her a few seconds, but once she'd collected herself, she stood and examined her new quarters. Evidently Danarius had decided she was too dangerous to leave unattended in the hold where she could influence the slaves to a rebellion. It was a tiny room, with barely enough room for its small bed and washstand. The latter was smashed, the former lacking a mattress, sheets and pillows. The window had been smashed in and boarded up – all from the outside, Hawke noted, spying the fragments of glass – all crushed too small to be used as a weapon – on the floor and bed base.

A quick scan told her that anything in the room that could have provided her with entertainment – even a view out of the window – was gone. This place was as much a cell as the hold, only smaller and with one occupant only. Danarius must have separated herself and Fenris, to stop them from coordinating a revolution or an escape. Hawke sighed and listened at the locked door, hoping futilely for any sound of the elf to let her know how he fared. She worried that he was now at the lack of mercy of his master, without anyone to watch his back. Despite his exceptional skill, Fenris was only one man, and one being returned to the place he hated and feared above all else at that. With another frustrated sigh, Hawke slid down to sit on the floor, leaning against the door to listen for him since she had nothing else to do, her fingers brushing gently over the red bolt of cloth around her wrist. She smiled at the memory it triggered, determined to see that night as the first of many, rather than the first and last.

They hadn't been very coordinated in shedding their clothes, she remembered. Her shirt had caught on her shoulder, refusing to give when he tugged it by its sleeve, his attention diverted by her lips and hands. Having lost all logic further than removing the damned robe in his way by any means necessary, he'd given the garment another, determined yank. Apparently the clothing was as stubborn as its wearer, because rather than sliding off her shoulder, it had instead torn, leaving him holding the sleeve, both of them staring at it comically for a moment before she started laughing, Fenris quick to follow. She'd tied it around his wrist with a smile, before catching him watching her with amusement and confusion warring in his heated eyes. She'd just given him a suddenly shy smile and told him to keep it – something to remind him of her. He'd raised an eyebrow and asked wryly how he could possibly forget her when he saw her almost every day.

"...and hopefully every night," He'd murmured, his voice husky as he drew her closer for another kiss; this one slower and left them both trembling.

"Just keep it," She'd whispered, having no breath for anything louder, "It's yours, as I am. _Not_ for any sense of ownership," She'd told him fiercely, when she saw him about to object to the possessive term. "But because I _choose_ to give myself to you," She'd seen realisation dawn then, and acceptance. They'd lost themselves in each other, until his memories had overwhelmed him and left him, fast and thorough as a sweeping wave. One thing she'd noticed after that night, when she'd visit him in his mansion and it would, after hours of talk or drinking or pouring over books, finally be time for her to leave, she'd hear his low murmur of 'I'm yours' as she walked away. She never commented on it, just as neither of them brought up the red band and Amell crest adorning his armour, but it was always there – that acknowledgement of their time together, and of the void still hanging between them.

It was the sound of footsteps approaching her door that brought her out of her memories and made her quickly rise to her feet and stand behind the door. There was nothing in the room to use as a weapon, and she doubted she could break the bed base apart without drawing attention to herself – which would defeat the objective of making a weapon in the first place.

The footsteps stopped outside her room, she heard the quiet chime of a few keys on a ring. Someone trusted with several rooms on the ship, then. Not some lowly guardsman or pet mage. Unlikely to be the Captain – he'd be attending to the ship, most likely, or sleeping if he wasn't on shift. So...

Hawke wasn't entirely surprised when the door opened and she heard the soft sweeping of robes as the owner took a single step into the room; still screened by the door.

The low, ironic laugh confirmed it to be Danarius, and drew back cloying memories of her recent nightmare.

"Come out from behind the door, Champion." There hadn't really been many choices of hiding place, Hawke reflected in annoyance. Still, she'd better do what the magister asked, hadn't she?

She swung out around the hinged plank of wood, crouching low to catch the mage around the middle. Her knuckles brushed his robes before a shield bloomed outwards, knocking her backwards. She landed heavily and with a curse as her injured shoulder hit the floor. The magisters hadn't seen fit to heal her, evidently.

"Magister!" Danarius' guards were fawning fools; quick to obedience, slow to react to threats. For a moment Hawke could see why Danarius wanted Fenris back – these buffoons couldn't guard a looted room from disinterested pirates. It was a pity their master was more effective in policing his own security.

The mage shook his head and waved at Hawke, biting out an order.

"Just bring her to the main deck. Be prompt and you might even be worth paying when we land in Minrathous,"

Hirelings, then. Not slaves, though they certainly acted the part. They dragged her to her feet and secured an arm each, holding them behind her back and shoving her into the corridor.

There was a small gathering around the gridded hold on the deck; mostly guards that looked extremely wary after the fiasco in the hold...when was that? Hours ago? Yesterday? She didn't know.

Danarius was stood there, his back to her. Beside him, flanked by two of the burlier guards present, was Fenris. He was standing on his own, and from what she could see of his back, was uninjured. She allowed a breath of relief to leave her. He wasn't hurt, at least.

It was only as she drew level with him that she made out the heavy manacles holding Fenris' arms in front of him. They looked strange, though – unusually thick, with a foreign writing on them. Runes, she realised. Then he was tilting his head, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Nothing about his posture changed; his expression remained one of hard indifference. But something...his eyes, maybe, or perhaps she simply knew him too well – something told her he was relieved to see her relatively unharmed.

Taking her cue from him, Hawke schooled her expression into one that was near boredom; as if she was utterly detached from the situation. She clung to the mask, trying to form as many layers of it as possible so that it would be harder to break, because she saw two small figures opposite Fenris, a guard to each of them.

Atisha and Sulahn.

She looked back to Fenris, knowing that a glimmer of dread and questioning was showing in her eyes, even though she'd held onto her stony composure. He just stared at her, unmoving, apparently emotionless. Giving her an example to follow.

But Sulahn was looking around with huge eyes, clinging to her mother's side, trying to blend in with the woman's skirt. Atisha hugged her child to her, even though her eyes were empty. Hawke wondered, afterwards, if she knew what would happen.

It was hard not to meet those eyes and try to give some sign of reassurance, so Hawke just looked at Danarius, her head tilted with the arrogance she'd never gained in her years as a noble. He was watching her, amused, before turning to address the crowd.

"As you should be aware of by now, a slave should not question their master's orders. A slave exists only to obey. You are not entitled to opinions of your own." This last was directed pointedly at Hawke and Fenris. Neither said a word, the elf merely returning his master's look flatly, Hawke biting the inside of her cheek to stop an acerbic taunt from leaving her mouth. If Danarius was affected by their lack of a response, he didn't show it. Instead he returned to his speech, slowly starting to pace the deck. All eyes were fixed on him, either out of admiration, fear or caution. Hawke knew nothing good could come of this little display of his, and the fact that Atisha and Sulahn were present was making her increasingly worried. There was no reason for them to be here, so why...?

"I would have expected at least you, Fenris, to understand that. Yet you have become just as...vocal, shall we say, as your temporary mistress," Here, the magister waved a careless hand at Hawke. She saw a single flicker of anger dance across Fenris' shoulders, but the elf held his tongue and simply watched the mage mutely. Hawke was only faintly surprised at how well he was holding his composure in front of Danarius' taunts. Fenris had shown no such restraint before, but now that his old master held all the power, he was being cautious; and Hawke had never known a person more careful than him.

"One thing I _know_ you are aware of, my little wolf, is the consequence of insubordination." Danarius gestured for one of the guards to step forward. He looked to be the leader of the hired mercenaries; his armour was more substantial and better cared for than that of the others. He drew a whip from his belt as he took a few steps into the loose ring of spectators. It was a cat o' nines, she noted, seeing Fenris tense fractionally in her peripheral vision. Hawke guessed he'd felt its bite before. She didn't know much about whips, but she had heard stories; the ones that told how people had died after prolonged beatings.

She found herself bracing, unsure of how much pain to expect. The slavers on the coast had favoured blades as weapons; the whips usually left at their belts to subdue already captured slaves. She'd never felt the sting of a whip on her flesh before.

"You are fortunate, really, that I want the pair of you to reach Minrathous alive, because the penalty for spreading word of a rebellion is death," Danarius' voice drew her attention back to the magister. The satisfied smile he wore made her wish she had a dagger in hand so that she could cut it from his face.

His words gave her pause for thought, though. It sounded like the Imperium was still deathly afraid of another uprising. It had barely survived the last one; trapped between the Qunari, Andraste's advancing army and the upheaval in its own streets. It'd only regained order by sacrificing the south of the Empire to Maferath in return for Andraste's life. Hawke wondered if it could withstand a second rebellion, if the slaves ever rose up against their masters again. She hoped it couldn't.

"However, just because I want you two in particular alive, does not mean the sentence cannot be carried out." She looked at the magister sharply, not believing his words as he waved at the two guards beside Atisha and Sulahn. The woman threw a panicked look at the two who had protected her family during the voyage, then grabbed her daughter as one of the guards made to tug her away.

"Danarius," Hawke's voice was quiet, shaking with the effort to control it. The magister ignored her. One of the guards had grabbed Atisha from behind, trying to control the woman's arms. She'd never been able to fight in the hold, but she was struggling and shouting now as the second guard tried to prise her child out of her grip. Sulahn was crying, clinging to her mother and trying to kick the guard away.

"Danarius!" Her voice snapped out, cracking like a bullwhip in the heavy air. The magister turned towards her, his smirk clear as he finally got a reaction from her. She was straining against the guards holding her; she could feel them struggling to hold her. Her lips were pulled back in a snarl. "Don't do this." It was a threat, not a plea. The hunter's edge to her voice made the distinction clear. "Don't you dare do this, or Maker help me, all the guards in Thedas won't be able to stop me from tearing your throat out!" She was snarling, shouting over the panicking voice in her mind that was denying the whole situation.

_He couldn't. He wouldn't do this. Maker, don't let him kill them._

But Fenris' words, from some long-ago conversation in High Town with Sebastian kept coming back to her. This man had slaughtered a little boy to entertain his guests. Why wouldn't he kill two elvhen slaves to prove a point?

"Kill the child first. It's wailing is starting to grate," Danarius called to the guards, holding her furious eyes the entire time.

With a shout, Hawke lunged at him, twisting her shoulders sharply. The guards were dragged forward a step before grounding themselves again and hauling her backwards. A third joined them, wrapping thick arms around her middle and lifting her off her feet as she tried to throw herself forwards again.

Atisha screamed, and Hawke watched, helpless, as Sulahn was tugged out of her grip.

A dagger was drawn.

Desperately, she threw a look at Fenris, but one look at the tall elf told her that he couldn't help any more than she could. The runes on his manacles were gleaming, the lyrium veins around it turning dull grey rather than the shining silver she was used to; killing the flickers of blue that were trying to light in his veins. His body looked rigid, as if in pain, though no sound left him. His eyes were pinned on the sobbing child, but there was no hope in them; no willingness to fight. They seemed closed off, somehow, as if he'd cut away any ties to the little girl, even though Hawke knew he'd silently, reluctantly grown fond of her, as she had. It was like having a young Bethany to mother again, and now she was being torn away from her too.

A hand grabbed her hair by its roots and snapped her head back around to face the little girl. Hot, rancid breath burnt the back of her ear as she grimaced in anger more than pain.

"The magister wants you to watch, you Ferelden bitch," The third guard spat, the stench of old ale carried on his words as he wrenched her hair, as if to prove his point. For an instant, Hawke considered simply closing her eyes, just to disobey the magister. But that would help no one, and might make Danarius order Sulahn or Atisha to suffer. Instead, Hawke clenched her teeth together to hold down her pride and fury and fixed blurring eyes on the small elvhen child.

Now that he knew their attention was focussed on the little girl, Danarius nodded for the mercenary to proceed and stepped back to ensure they saw everything.

The man didn't even hesitate. The blade went to the child's throat, bit deep, and tore across. Her eyes glazed as her blood arched into the air, an artery severed. The guard stepped back and the little body dropped, copper hair turning red in the pool that slowly beat out around her.

Atisha hadn't stopped screaming, but a helpless sobbing had come over her. Hawke thought that the only thing keeping her standing was the guard holding her arms. Through the gasping breaths, Hawke made out a garbled prayer even as a second knife rose to her throat. The mother died as easily as the daughter, a frozen, vacant look resembling surprise on her face as she fell.

Hawke felt her breath catch in her throat, but pressed her lips together tightly to pull it back under control, even though she could feel hot tears rimming her eyes and toying with her lashes. She clamped her lids closed to try and drive the tears back, gambling on the action stemming the beads of water rather than pushing them over the barrier of her lashes. It paid off; though her all of her lashes were drenched from root to tip, no tears touched the skin of her cheek as she opened her eyes to face Danarius again. The magister was watching her with a whimsical curiosity.

Her anger flared then, and she struggled not to show it. This was all just a game to him; a show that he dictated. All this; the deaths, the impatient guard with the whip...it was all just idle entertainment to him. The bastard was seeing how far he had to push to get a reaction.

By the Maker, he was not going to get anything more from her.

Setting her jaw, she lifted her chin and stared at him, trying to recall the period of vacancy she'd felt in the wake of her mother's death. Nothing had touched her then. Not even Fenris, with his awkward, stilted attempts at consolation. She'd realised that she should appreciate the action, but there was no feeling to accompany the notion. She needed that kind of detachment now as her three guards dragged her forward, the circle of men shifting and reforming as they spun her to face the wall of the captain's cabin, two of them pinning her hands against it whilst the third took a knife to the straps of her armour.

Sending a glance over her shoulder, she saw the mercenary leader taking his place a few paces behind her, flexing the leather of the whip between his hands as his men cut her out of her black shoulder guards and bared her back, lines of blood jumping up as their rough use of the knives marred her skin. Ragged blades of cloth flapped in the strong sea breeze as her tattered undershirt hung off her shoulders. She heard a low whistle from one of the guards as he caught sight of the long, jagged scar across her back; the skin permanently puckered from the duel with the Arishok.

"Big scratch for a little lady," One of his fellows muttered, the sarcasm in his voice barely covering the surprise in it.

To stifle any budding respect the guards may be gaining for the Champion, Danarius strode to the side of the mercenary boss as he delivered their sentence. "Fifty lashes each," He had the gall to sound bored.

"As you say, Magister," The leader said amiably, as if agreeing on the contents of a shopping list, not a means of torture, as he drew his arm back.

The first lash made full use of the all the knotted tails; nine claws of blood bloomed across her jolting back, the inside of each lip of flesh gleaming scarlet. Her choked cry of pain lodged itself like a bolt somewhere between Fenris' heart and the mingled fury and helplessness roiling in his gut. He tried – Maker, he'd tried to break free of the manacles, when they'd killed Sulahn and her mother, and he was trying now.

The gleam of lyrium slammed itself against the dead grey wall of magic constricting his veins as he fought to phase through the bonds that held him, so he could drag the bastard hurting Hawke away from her by his spine. But Danarius had commissioned these rune-embedded irons especially for him; he was only hurting his very veins by trying to free himself.

That didn't stop him trying. Each snap of leather and each stifled scream, forever trapped in her throat, sent another pulse of lyrium through his arms, renewing the barrage against his entrapments.

It had passed through his mind to try and bargain with his master; he could take both of their lashes. He _wanted _to, if it would stop her screaming. He'd endured worse before. But bitter experience held his tongue. Danarius would just twist anything he said into a reason to punish them with extra lashes. The best and only thing a slave could do was stay silent and wait for the suffering to end.

Her cries were getting quieter; she was learning how to bite them off before they could form.

By the fifteenth strike, nothing but a sharp breath dragged past her clenched teeth betrayed her.

By the twenty-fifth, more than two hundred cuts laced her skin as the torturer swapped arms, his right growing tired.

By the thirtieth, her back was slick with blood; not an inch of clear skin could be seen, not that there was much left to see.

By the fortieth, she was starting to slump, the guards either side of her keeping her standing by her arms.

When the last blow fell, the blood had soaked into the green fabric of her belt, seeping down the lengths of cloth, staining the stitches a dark burgundy. The scarlet of her undershirt blended smoothly with the crimson blood coating her back; the teeth of slashed cloth sticking to her skin. Her head drooped onto her chest, her guards holding her upright by her elbows. Her legs were not supporting her so much as propping her up. Her eyes were half open, glazed. After fifty lashes and four hundred and fifty wounds, she was barely responsive. Fenris wondered if she'd even felt the last few lashes, or if she'd lost enough blood to be beyond the pain. As she drew in deep, laboured breaths a glimmer of white could be seen through the mangled flesh and gleaming blood across her shoulder blades. The knots in the whip had cut her to the bone.

For the first time, Fenris felt truly sickened by the sight of whip marks. He'd seen and felt them before, many times, but for some reason this time they were evoking that same dread and the sensation of a fist stuck in his throat that he'd felt when he saw Hawke skewered on the Arishok's blade. These were the only times that the sight of blood and injury had affected him.

A sweep of movement caught his eye; Danarius waving over another guard. This one carried a bucket of water; Fenris could hear it sloshing against the wooden walls.

Salt water. To cause additional pain and reduce infection.

When the cold water hit her raw back, Hawke finally roused, her back jerking away from the new pain with a soft hiss as she put some force back into her legs.

The pain in Fenris' chest lessened slightly as he saw her lift her head, her hands slowly unfurling from their loose fists. The ache subsided into relief when, as the guards pulled her away from the wall and back towards her cell, she lifted her pain clouded eyes to meet his and gave him a small, exhausted smile before letting the guards drag her to her room.

Then the guards were jostling him, snapping his head around from watching her and towing him forward to the bloodied section of the deck where Hawke had stood. Fenris allowed them, choosing to silently steel himself rather than fight. It was his turn to feel the whip.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys, sorry for the slow update, but college has resumed with a bang and is making up for lost time. As always, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, even glanced at this fic. You're all wonderful. I hope this chapter flows okay, since I wrote it over quite a few days, with a lot of gaps, and in different mind frames. I've not read over it (surprise surprise), so I'm relying on you guys to tell me if I've made any errors in spelling/grammar/characterisation etc. Thanks again, and I'll stop bugging you now and let you read XD

**Edit**: I've gone back over and corrected the punctuation errors you guys found for me, as well as rephrasing some overly-complicated sentences, but for some reason either the website or my email won't let me respond to any of your reviews to thank you. I'll post this little message on the next chapter as well (if I remember) since that's where most of you will see it. I'll say thanks again to all of you now, since the site won't let me message each of you, so thank you!

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything.**

* * *

><p>Consciousness was teasing; ghosting around the edges of the Fade with glimpses of sound and sensation. Intrigued by this, Hawke tried to move towards these slivers of reality, but as she did so, her limbs became heavier, and the foreboding knowledge that something horrible awaited her in the waking world only grew stronger. There was a low burn in her back; not intense enough to be painful, yet as she turned fitfully from one outside sound to another the sensation intensified.<p>

But those sounds...the comforting shush of the waves, the low murmur of distant voices...they were important. She had to remember why, and that involved waking up, even though something inside her quailed at the idea.

Waves...the Wounded Coast? No, this was different. Not waves against sand, rustling softly. These broke against something; a clash that still managed to sound somewhat gentle.

Memory snapped back, before springing away again in an attempt to protect herself. The ship. The deck...something about the deck. Something linked to the ghost pain in her back.

'_Focus. Something's not right.'_ She had to remember. She couldn't stay in the comforting caress of the Fade any longer.

Determination strengthened her will, and the Fade responded. The sounds from outside grew stronger, clearer, as if rushing towards her down a tunnel.

Rough voices, controlled shouts. Orders. Laughter, yet the sound wasn't a reassuring one. Then waking ambushed her like one of Isabela's runaway metaphors, and the agony seared her back.

Hawke stifled a cry into a whimper, one muffled by the floor. It took her several seconds to realise that there was a hand amongst the pain; its shape utterly masked by the burning surrounding it.

Hawke's eyes flinched open and she jerked; feeling the hand spring from her back even as she rolled to try and escape it. Her clouded coordination foiled her, however – she rolled too far, losing her balance and falling onto her back rather than her side.

Hawke thought she screamed, but she couldn't hear herself past the blood pounding in her ears and the dulled sound of semi-consciousness as black and white dots collided in her vision.

She was aware of someone tugging her onto her side, struggling against her writhing. As her eyes focussed, she saw the door to her dark cell burst open and two pairs of boots hurry into the room, the sound of keys jangling reaching her ears a moment later. Evidently she'd been loud enough for the guards to hear her.

She heard one of them swear, the other mutter under his breath. The louder of the two marched forward, and the fragile – female, Hawke realised – hands that had been holding her vanished, replaced by leather gloves and a bruising hold as the man dragged her unceremoniously onto her front again.

"Blighted dog-lords. More trouble than they're worth," He spat, straightening. Hawke was shaking, every muscle in her body shrieking at her to stand; to defend herself, but their very weakness stopped her. She could only lie, eyes rolling to try and follow the boots around the room, her breathing as harsh as an exhausted Mabari's, her frame shuddering with pain and wasted adrenaline.

"I-I'm sorry, Messere, she just woke up so suddenly; I didn't think she'd be able to move so quickly-" The young woman's voice had a soft accent, reminiscent of Sebastian's, Hawke thought, and came from somewhere to Hawke's left; in the far corner of the room and out of Hawke's sight. She heard the guard scoff, spit, and then his boots were tramping back into view, heading for the door.

"Just get that poultice on her back, mage. Magister Danarius wants this one to survive the journey. Gods know why," The sound of running steps approached the door; another pair of boots appeared, these patched and worn.

"Messere, the other one's awake. Shouting for this one and trying to get out the door. I think he heard her," The messenger relayed, making Hawke twist her head and try to sit up and see what was going on, but the flames in her back prevented her. Gritting her teeth, Hawke resigned herself to listening. The 'other one' had to be Fenris. Dimly, she thought she could hear raised voices; far away.

The guard still at the door swore and swept out into the hall, while his companion growled again and marched after, complaining bitterly about 'blighted slaves'. Hawke wished the messenger would speak again, but he just scurried away after the first guard, leaving the second to lock her cell again.

Damn it. Fenris. He'd gone through what she had, yet he still tried to reach her, even though he was probably in just as bad a condition as she. In comparison, Hawke felt pathetic; crumpled on the floor where the guards had thrown her whilst unconscious, and unable to even lift her head.

"Se-Serah?" The voice broke through her silent cursing, sounding timid even though the guards had left and Hawke could barely move a muscle without her back screeching in complaint.

Hawke shifted her eyes to try and look back towards her feet, but could barely see her shoulder without turning her head.

Slowly, a small shape shuffled into view. Her robes denoted a mage; their patches and her wide-eyed fear marked her a slave, scared of a wild woman who knew nothing of slavery.

Well, maybe not nothing. Not anymore.

The woman was light boned, with short-cropped red hair and dark brown eyes that reminded Hawke of the timid deer that roamed the forests of Sundermount. Her faced was currently creased in concern, her hands twisting in worry.

Hawke tried to respond; her voice rasped out before a sound could be produced. Swallowing did nothing to ease her dry throat, but it was enough to make herself audible.

"It's alright. I...don't bite people that...don't deserve it," She tried to force some humour into her fractured voice, but if anything the girl's eyes widened further, and she backed up a step. Silently, Hawke cursed. Orana had been terrified of her sense of humour too, for the first few weeks. Even though she was paid well and treated with respect, she still struggled to shake off the feeling that all of that would change if she said the wrong thing or didn't curtsey deeply enough.

Summoning the spectre of a grin, Hawke managed to rasp, "I was joking. Not that you don't deserve it anyway," The woman's eyes shrank fractionally, but she hovered in place, as if wanting to help but still fearing she'd have her hand bitten off if she tried.

Drawing in a deep, pained breath, Hawke tried to prop herself up, biting down on her tongue when her shoulders protested. After a few shaky seconds, she gave up. It felt like some of her muscles had been ripped along with her skin. Maker, maybe they had. She hadn't seen her back, and had no desire to.

"Try not to move, Serah. You'll only make it worse," The girl had finally approached, kneeling at the Champion's side and reaching for the small jar of poultice she'd abandoned when the guards appeared.

Hawke grunted at that, an unladylike sound that would have made her mother shake her head in disapproval, even while holding back a smile.

"Short of sticking a knife into my heart, I doubt I can make what those bastards did much worse," She growled, sucking in a sharp breath as thin, shaky fingers started to apply the strong-smelling paste, gently covering each line of dried blood. The earthy smell of elfroot mixed with the sharpness of its distilling agent seared Hawke's nose, adding to her discomfort as she clamped her teeth on her tongue to prevent herself from shouting out in pain.

"Please, Serah, you shouldn't say things like that. They'll discipline you again if they hear," The young woman whispered, the reason for her trembling hand revealed. Hawke snorted however, another sound her mother had failed to train her out of.

"'Discipline'? Is that what they call torture in Tevinter?" She snarled, her fingers clenching with anger that had no other outlet. The sting of touch in her back was slowly being replaced with the cooling, healing effects of the poultice, though Hawke knew it would be days, maybe weeks before she could move without cutting pain again.

"They only hurt us if we do something bad. That way we learn not to make the same mistake again!" Maker help her, was this girl _defending_ the magisters? These people controlled their slaves in mind as well as body, if Fayth's innocent, bright tone was anything to go by.

An image fell into her mind, unbidden, of Fenris, his low voice marked with the same ignorance, his face frowning slightly as he corrected her, refusing to hear a bad word said against his master. The thought of him so subservient sickened her, but the knowledge that he had been like that, once, pressed down on her mind.

'_And when we reach Minrathous, he'll be like that again,'_ She thought bitterly, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back the grief. It would be like losing him. Losing him, but still having him, because he wouldn't be dead. He'd be...changed. He wouldn't know her.

That was what scared her. That she'd be trapped in this viper's nest, and she wouldn't be able to turn to him for support.

Once again, the soft voice broke into her thoughts, thankfully distracting her from them.

"I'm sorry, Serah. I'm almost done, it shouldn't hurt so much then," The girl thought it was physical pain she was suffering from. Still, it was the only kindness Hawke was likely to get, so she swallowed past the dry lump in her throat and thanked her, a little huskily. She still sounded as if she'd swallowed half of the sand on the Wounded Coast.

"I'm sorry, but what was your name?" She asked as the quiet dragged on. She was still worried for Fenris, and this woman might be able to help her.

"Fayth, Serah. And you're the Champion of Kirkwall, aren't you? I heard Master talking about you before he sent me in here," Fayth replied cheerfully, her voice as innocent as Orana's.

Hawke smiled; a touch sadly. She didn't feel like the Champion right now.

"Yes, that's what I get called. But my name is Hawke," She answered, hoping the girl would pick up the cue. Thankfully, she did.

"A pleasure to meet you, Serah Hawke," Well, maybe not completely. Hawke wouldn't call meeting aboard a slaver's ship while she was half dead from blood loss 'a pleasure', but manners must have been drilled into this girl's skull so often that their circumstances flew straight over her head.

Shaking her head the tiniest fraction – all she could do without igniting the agony all down her back – Hawke spoke again, ignoring the painful drag of air down into her lungs.

"Fayth, do you know anything about the other prisoner? The elf with the lyrium tattoos?" She asked, trying not to let hope rise in her chest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman frown in concern, a small flicker of fear vanishing from her face.

"Not much, Serah. Just that he's being kept separate, like you are, and that he was lashed after you. Master Danarius shows particular interest in him; he said he came to the Free Marches specifically for him. Apparently he's a runaway slave, but he must have left before I entered Master Danarius' household." Fayth sat back, wiping the excess poultice from her hands and onto the side of the small pot before resealing it. "There you are, Serah. Give that a minute or two, and you should be more comfortable," She said brightly, shifting around so that Hawke could see her properly.

"Thank you," Hawke said automatically, cautiously moving an arm. Her shoulder burned, but not as intensely. Hawke decided to do as commanded and lie still for a few more minutes and question Fayth further before attempting anything adventurous. Like sitting up.

"Do you know where on the ship Fenris is being held? I thought I could hear him earlier, when the guards were here, but I can't be sure," She didn't know why she was asking this. She would only be tormenting herself if he was just a room away yet utterly unreachable. It was bad enough that they were on the same ship yet kept apart.

Fayth was frowning again, as if uncomfortable with the subject, her eyes darting to the side in uncertainty.

"We're...not really meant to discuss him, Serah. He's being kept safe in another cabin on the ship, and Master Danarius is keeping a close eye on him, if that makes you feel any better," Fayth thought that she was being reassuring. Hawke's insides crawled at the thought of Danarius being anywhere near Fenris while he was weakened and unarmed.

Drawing in a determined breath, Hawke pulled her arms underneath her again, this time only aggravating a low burn in her back. The poultice must have been a strong one; even the deepest cuts had formed thick pink scars, tenuously knitted together.

Cautiously, she pushed herself up and into a sitting position, every muscle complaining as they stretched.

Fayth was watching her with something close to amazement, her small mouth open in a stunned 'o'. Evidently it wasn't every day she saw a freshly flayed slave sitting up just hours after the event, health poultice or no.

Hawke spotted a small pile of neatly folded clothes beside Fayth. She nodded to them tersely, her jaw still clenched in discomfort.

"Are they for me?" She grit out. Fayth nodded silently.

Gingerly, Hawke started to peel away her stiffened undershirt, the edges breaking away from her sides as she broke the adhesive of dried blood. Fayth shuffled over to help, noting how drawn the Champion's face was at each movement.

Growling out a word of thanks, Hawke slowly managed to change into the patched, simple dress, pausing to grab Fenris' crest from her belt before setting the ruined armour aside. The new outfit was a bit tight around her back and arms; the clothes made for a slim slave, not a lean-muscled rogue, but they fit well enough. Hawke still grimaced at them.

"Of course, they _would_ stick me in a dress," She muttered, tugging on the accompanying boots, a size too large, with a sharpness that spoke of her anger. Hawke hadn't worn a dress for years; her mother had lost the ability to talk her into one once her daughter took up fighting, and the Champion had quickly learnt not to make any bets with Isabela that involved clothes after that one incident at the Hanged Man. Wearing one now made her feel insecure and vulnerable; no doubt that was Danarius' intention. In the hopes of remedying this, Hawke looked critically over her armour.

She had small knives hidden away in compartments just above her hips; they were next to useless in a close-combat fight, but perfect for throwing and assassinations. The rogue felt a small measure of relief when she found them still there; they'd just missed the butchery of her clothing and had remained hidden.

With a smile, Hawke drew them and used one of the dry sections of her old tunic to scrub away the flakes of dried blood that had soaked through to coat the weapons.

Fayth watched in silence, her eyes wide as Hawke slipped the blades, now suitably clean, behind the wide leather belt she wore; the accessory thick enough to conceal the thin daggers.

"Serah, slaves aren't allowed weapons unless they're guards..." Fayth's voice was soft, scared. Hawke glanced up at her, for once allowing the hunter's hunger to linger in her eyes. She meant to scare the girl, though she felt bad about it. Those daggers might be the only form of defence she had.

"Fayth, I'm going to ask you not to tell anybody about those blades. You did not see me take them from my armour. Do you understand?" Her voice was soft, her words slow and carefully pronounced. The shrinking girl folded in on herself further, nodding mutely. The deer eyes were back again; a deer that had spotted the hunter and knew it couldn't run away fast enough.

Hawke nodded, fracturing the deadly facade with a small smile.

"Thank you. I know you think the life of a slave is normal, even good, but I have known nothing but freedom, and I do not want to bow my head to a master now; not when I know life is so much better,"

She thought she saw curiosity flicker in those dark eyes, maybe even the hint of a query about her mouth, but then the sound of footsteps approaching the door made her freeze, then spring to her feet, snatching up Hawke's ruined armour and the pot of nearly empty poultice from the floor.

"I should be going, Serah. Good day," She squeaked, before knocking on the door. Keys jangled, and the door opened. The footsteps of the guards reached the door and passed on by, their creators glancing inside her room curiously before walking on. The man standing guard outside her door stepped back to allow Fayth to leave, his eyes also skipping inside the room to linger on Hawke, still seated on the floor. A hint of a smirk crossed his mouth as his gaze swept over her revealed figure, then the door closed again, leaving Hawke in the dim light admitted by the cracks around the door and the board across her window.

Finally alone, Hawke let a low, shaky breath leave her, dropping her squared shoulders and biting the inside of her cheek as her wounds flared again. The poultice kept the worst of the pain at bay, but it would be several days before she could bear anything other than clothes touching her skin. Even now, the brush of stiff linen against the fresh scars made her want to tear the cloth away, or douse her back in ice water, just to numb it.

Hawke didn't quite trust her legs to support her yet; she knew that she'd lost a lot of blood during her whipping, and was still weak. She'd not eaten for three days, and her body was starting to reflect that.

Slowly, she shuffled, half crawling across the small room to once again slump near the door, resting her side against the wall and briefly touching her belt to check the daggers were still in place before closing her eyes tiredly. She hated letting her guard down like this, but even the effort of sitting up and changing clothes and talking had exhausted her. She just had to trust that Danarius wanted her alive and hope none of his men tried to kill her. She wanted to keep her daggers a secret for as long as she could, which would be rather difficult if they ended up opening a man's throat.

With an utter lack of humour, Hawke wondered if she would spend the majority of the voyage asleep or unconscious as she slowly submitted to the exhaustion dragging at her body and mind, her fingers wrapped gently around the thin red band around her wrist.

She awoke to the not-so distant sounds of battle.

Her disorientation lasted only moments, then she was kneeling up with a hiss of pain as the muscles in her back stretched, trying unsuccessfully to see through the gap between the door and its frame, her head tilted to try and hear what was happening.

'_Pirates? Raiders?'_ She thought wildly, waiting impatiently for the shouts to resolve into more than fierce, wordless bellows of charging warriors and grunts of effort.

Then Danarius' voice rose above the sounds of battle, sounding far too calm and pleased for anyone in an attempted boarding or a rebellion.

"Good! It looks like your years of being the Champion's lapdog haven't dulled your skills, pet," At the words, Hawke's heart sank, even as the sound of Fenris' angered snarl was drowned out by a blessedly unfamiliar, horrendous scream. It cut off with something close to a gurgle; a sound Hawke had heard so often in Fenris' company for it to be almost instantly recognisable. Someone had just had their heart crushed and possibly torn out.

They weren't under attack. Danarius was merely testing out his freshly reacquired weapon on his surplus guards.

She waited tensely for Fenris to shout, to threaten the man he once called master. To do _something _that showed he was still free, in mind if not body.

There was only quiet.

"Very well, that will do. Take him back to his cell and give him some food and water. I don't want his strength waning too much; he'll be next to useless otherwise," Hawke's jaw clenched at the magister's dismissive tone, wishing she had him in the room with her so that she could cut his throat out.

But the sound of footsteps approaching made her head jerk up. Two pairs of boots, and the softer, near soundless pad of bare feet that was only clear when the three were steps away from her door.

Suddenly, irrationally, Hawke wanted to let Fenris know where she was, as if it would somehow make her feel less isolated. Maybe it would bring back some of the fight that seemed to have left him.

"Fenris!" She called through the door, hating how her voice rasped like a darkspawn's shriek. But the footsteps faltered, even as the guard outside her door kicked the wood, demanding silence.

Hawke snorted.

"I wasn't talking to you, you thick-headed nug-licker!" She retorted, borrowing one of the dwarven insults Varric had regaled them with on one of the long night spent in the Hanged Man.

She heard the guards trying to drag Fenris down the corridor, but by the sound of it he was resisting.

"What did you say, you little Ferelden bitch?" Her guard growled, and she heard keys jingle as he turned to open her door.

A sudden, winded gulp and the simultaneous thud of a body against the door sent Hawke rocking back on her heels as the door shuddered. She didn't need to hear the guards cussing as they grabbed hold of Fenris again to guess that the elf had broken free of their complacent grip and slammed the offending mercenary against the door, head first and with a punch to the gut.

She'd also heard Fenris' quiet hiss before he'd been pulled away.

"Lay a hand on her, and you will have more than _barbed words_ puncturing your heart to worry about,"

A smile of genuine relief and affection spread across her tired face as she whispered a soft thank you through the door, hoping his sensitive ears would pick it up even if his guards didn't.

Since her guard did not follow through on entering her cell, Hawke guessed he'd taken Fenris' warning to heart, albeit with much swearing and grumbling as he resumed his post.

The journey was, for the most part, boring. Hawke spent most of her time sleeping or listening at the door for any sign of Fenris. It was also harsh, in its own way. As if to contrast Fenris' treatment, Hawke was barely fed for the remainder of the voyage, and was given a single, small cup of water every other day to keep her alive.

Despite her meagre fare, and the still-healing scars lacing her back, Hawke tried to maintain some semblance of fitness when her exhaustion and impending weakness didn't drag her into sleep. She had little else to do in her cell all day, and wanted to be stronger than her guards expected when they reached Minrathous. If they could somehow flee before reaching Danarius' estate, they could hopefully escape this nightmare before Danarius stole Fenris memories again and made it impossible for them both to leave.

Because she couldn't leave. Not without him. If Danarius gave her a free ticket back to the Free Marches, all expenses paid, she wouldn't take it if it meant leaving Fenris behind.

Already in Hawke's mind, that was what their future depended on: a desperate flight between the docks and their future prison. She just hoped Fenris was as ready to bolt as she was, because she knew her slowly weakening body would not carry her far. Once they were out of Minrathous, it was likely that Fenris would be the one supporting them until she had regained her strength.

She tried not to let herself think of the other alternatives. She had to believe that they would escape. She didn't have much left, after all. Just a scrap of cloth, a family crest, and hope.

It was the shield she held, approximately eight weeks after waking up into the life of a slave, staring blankly at her crest in thought when the cry went up outside her door.

Minrathous.

They'd made port twice on their voyage, in Antiva City and Carastes, but there was no real excitement in it. It was just a brief overnight stay to restock in food, drinking water and mercenaries to replace those that she and Fenris had dispatched in their insolent fight in the hold. Some of the surviving slaves were taken from the hold to be sold when they docked in Carastes, now safely in the border of the Tevinter Imperium. The rest would be auctioned off in Minrathous, or taken to Danarius' mansion if he required new slaves.

This sighting was accompanied by the rapid jabbering of Arcanum from the natives, their excitement tangible as the deck hands scrambled around with added enthusiasm in order to dock those few minutes faster. The Tevinter were glad to be home.

Hawke had never felt more homesick in her life, even as adrenaline pounded through her.

It still took a few hours to make port and organise everything before the slaves were released from the confines of the ship, giving Hawke the time to calm herself and master the nerves thudding through her veins.

She had no real plan, a fact which constantly threatened to throw her into a panic. She was accustomed to being in control; of almost always having prior knowledge of a situation. However, Hawke had never needed nor felt inclined to study the layout of a port city on the opposite side of the continent, though she was wishing she had some sort details on it now. She hadn't been able to coordinate with Fenris, so had no idea if he had his own plans for escape or if he was relying on her. She didn't even know where Fenris _was_; she would have to find him quickly and hope he was ready to run. To her disgust, her plan did not amount to much more than find and grab Fenris, run as quickly as they could, rely on Fenris' knowledge of the city and put as much space and diversions in between them and their inevitable pursuers as possible.

One factor she had, stupidly, _stupidly_ not taken into account was made blazingly obvious as she was marched out of the ship and down the gangplank.

Sunlight.

Hawke had been held in a dimly lit cell for the best part of two months, and her eyes had adapted to the darkness. The midday sun of a cloudless day seared her eyes and blinded her.

With a grunt, she ducked her head, her eyes crushed shut instinctively, shying away from the visual pain even as her other senses screamed at her to open her eyes; to _see_. Losing even one sense in the next few minutes could destroy any chance of escape.

Her vision a blur of white and afterimages, Hawke rapidly blinked, trying to make out the scene before her in snapshots.

People. Throngs of people. Stalls. Guards. Slaves in a chained line. A marketplace, with a central stage raised on struts. An auction.

A long, squinted look revealed the details.

A slave auction. Most of Danarius' cargo was being led towards it, a select few being held separately by the guards.

Her own wardens were not accommodating in her attempts to restore her vision and dim her confusion. The loud, raucous sound of a heaving market only added to her disorientation. Too many voices, too many noises pressing in around her.

With a deep, controlled breath, Hawke channelled it all out and marshalled her watering eyes, blinking away the tears as she focussed on her task.

Find Fenris.

Her eyes skimming the heads of the crowd she was surrounded by, she searched quickly, desperately, for the distinctive flash of lyrium bleached hair, trying to avoid being jostled by both the crowd and her guards, harrying her along in the wake of their master.

It was only when she looked dead ahead did she finally take note of the ostentatious carriage drawn up at the mouth of one of the streets feeding into the market, and the thin figure of the despised magister climbing into it, following another of whom Hawke saw only a glimpse of a boot.

Hawke, her lip curling, was about to turn her eyes away when a glimpse of white caught her attention.

Eyes darting back, she finally saw the distinctive form of the lyrium warrior through a fleeting thinning of the crowd.

Relief sang through her, and she finally stopped resisting her guards as they dragged her forward.

As she watched, the carriage jolted into movement, Fenris jerking after it strangely.

Frowning, the lightness in her chest souring into disquiet, Hawke stared after him, trying to make him out fully.

Her guards were shouting, shouldering shoppers out of the way when they didn't part fast enough to admit a magister's new property through the crowds. She earned herself a few transitory glances, but eyes rarely lingered except when those staring noticed the proud set of her shoulders, the brazen meeting of her eyes as she glared at them for disrupting her view.

Finally, they started to catch up to the slowly moving carriage, enough for Hawke to see Fenris clearly.

Slow, bitter realisation settled upon her like a tangible weight.

Fenris had mentioned briefly, in their first meeting so long ago, that Danarius had kept him leashed like a Qunari mage. Now she saw what he had meant.

A strong leather cord formed a noose around his neck, the length of tough rope attached to it connecting him to the back of the carriage, forcing him to stride after it. When the streets cleared, Fenris would have to run to keep up, or be dragged.

With that one glance, Hawke abandoned all thoughts of escape. Bar a stray fireball or divine intervention from Sebastian's Maker, they were never going to get loose before reaching the estate.

She realised dimly that her guards were bellowing in her ear, ordering her to walk. She just looked at them, almost uncomprehending. When she simply turned her head to stare ahead again, making no move to resume cooperation with her guards, one of them stopped her sharply and spun to face her, the gauntleted back of his hand cracking across her cheek. The other laughed as she twitched in dispassionate response to the blood beading in the graze and slowly collecting to slide down her face.

No one around them looked twice at the scene.

They dragged her onwards, her lack of cooperation ignored. They were accustomed to using the slightest excuse to exert their superiority and power over the slaves; whether that changed their behaviour mattered little to the guards. They just enjoyed watching the powerless suffer.

Slowly, the streets started to clear as they moved away from the port, and the carriage picked up speed, the rhythmic clatter of horses hooves against the cobbles audible for the first time. Fenris was forced into a brisk jog, his wrists still bound in front of him, the runes gleaming in a mockery of the burning sun pressing down on their shoulders; just another weight to bear amongst many.

From ahead, Hawke heard Danarius laughing, the sound carrying over the heads of Fenris, the handful of other slaves and the numerous guards to reach her.

The sound struck something inside her; like angry sparks slapped from a heated sword in the forge. She found her eyes fixed on the back of the carriage, wishing bitterly she had Varric and Bianca beside her to put a bolt in the bastard's skull. Of all the unscrupulous criminals she had seen in Kirkwall; thieves, murderers, blood mages and abominations, she felt that none had deserved to die as much as this monster; and the whole Imperium with him.

And one day he would die. He'd go too far in one of his spells, challenge someone he couldn't beat, have his life stolen from him in the night by an assassin.

'_But that won't change anything,'_ Hawke acknowledged bitterly. One less magister in a whole nest of them. Who would care? No one but his slaves; his _property_, whose fates would be thrown into disarray. One death couldn't fell an Empire, no matter how well deserved.

'_But it would be a start,'_ She thought grimly.

As they rounded a corner into the magisters estates, the vast mansions looming above them to strangle the sun, Hawke hoped fervently that she would be there the day Danarius died.

She hoped she would play a part in that demon's demise.

She hoped she could watch him burn.


	5. Chapter 5

Hey everyone! I think I owe you an apology again for the wait - I was on holiday, but I've been back for a month now and only just got this done so...I'm sorry! Though that was, in part, due to me losing my copy of DAII, so I can't play the DLC Legacy that I downloaded. It's driving me insane; we've searched everywhere for that game, and it just isn't here! (Seriously, I've even checked the chimney in case my cousin hid it on me. I wouldn't put it past him). But regarding delays, I will warn you (if you haven't noticed already) that this is a regular occurence, so...yeah. There probably will be long breaks between chapters because I procrastinate everything, and for that I'm sorry.

Anyway, here's chapter five. I chose to end it where I did because this (approx. six pages on Word) seems to be a consistent length for each chapter, but I could have just continued this further. I decided to post it as it was, and ask you guys for your opinion: do you like the length of my chapters at present, or would you prefer longer chapters (when the muse strikes, anyway)? Up to you, my dear readers! And with that (and the disclaimer: **all characters and settings belong to Bioware**), and a quick warning about a brief scene of torture for those of you with faint hearts (though I doubt any of you reading this is purturbed by a bit of blood and screaming XD) I'll let you get on with the chapter!

* * *

><p>The slaves were pulled to a halt inside the courtyard as the carriage rolled to a stop, four slaves scurrying out from a side building that Hawke assumed was the stables, standing ready to lead the horses inside once the magister and his companion exited the carriage.<p>

Now that they had a chance to rest and there were no crowds between them, Hawke took the opportunity to watch Fenris closely as he stood by the carriage, rolling his neck and hands subtly to try and ease the ache of strained muscles and chafed skin. Despite the run, his breathing was still measured and even; only slightly deeper than normal. She recognised the way he kept his head down, but tilted slightly to look through his hair. It was his way of deflecting attention...or of surreptitiously searching for something. He shifted just slightly, giving Hawke a glimpse of moss green through the barrier of white hair.

His revealed eye fixed on her, and for a moment she thought she saw his shoulders smooth out fractionally in relief before his shields went up again. She saw his jaw tighten as he took in her altered appearance, the metal segments of his gauntlets gleaming in the harsh northern sun as his hands clenched.

To try and soothe him, she shifted her arm slightly, just enough to show her right wrist in front of her. She sensed her guards tensing, hoping she'd make some idiotic break for freedom, but she ignored them and held still, watching Fenris slowly loosen his hands and jaw as he caught sight of the battered band of cloth wrapped around her wrist. The ends were crumpled with old folds; she'd had to tighten it when she'd first donned the favour, and again as she grew thinner on the voyage.

It took a few seconds, but he eventually gave a slow nod. He didn't dare smile, but the tightness around his eyes eased, which was enough – she nodded back and dropped her arm again, shooting her old glare at the guards when they jostled her. That set Fenris' mind at ease more than seeing her favour; knowing that her stubborn will still held.

Still, he'd seen new, captured slaves in Danarius' household before. Some were quiet from the start, but there were always those who fought at every opportunity, jibed the guards and made repeated bids for freedom. But even their strong spirits were eventually broken, through the ridicule, the lack of decent food, the beatings, the failed escape attempts. Some succeeded, for a few days, and were branded upon their recapture. The end result was always the same: a tame slave who did as they were bidden, without objection or hesitation. In the war against the Qunari, Fenris had seen slaves used by the mages to cause devastation amongst the Qunari ranks. The magisters would cast one of the walking bomb spells on the slaves, and order them to run at the enemy. They always did. The Qunari soon started to pick the slaves off from a distance, if they could – killing them in the no-man's land, where they would explode upon death and harm only themselves. In return, the magisters simply used more slaves in each wave. Some inevitably reached the enemy.

After his escape, Fenris had wondered at the tactic. Surely some slaves would have realised that they would die anyway; so why not stay where they were and take down their mage executioner with them? But none had. None had even stayed long enough for the spell to wear off, thus prolonging their life until the magisters dealt with the traitor. All of them had run when ordered, even as they sobbed with fear and uttered broken, useless prayers to the Old Gods.

Fenris tried to believe that Hawke wouldn't fall to their weakness. She wouldn't let them turn her into a mindless slave. But he had seen it happen all too often, and Hawke, despite her strength and compassion and indomitable nature, was still just a person. She bled like any other, felt grief, humiliation, pain...being constantly told that you were worthless would wear on anybody. She may last longer than the other captured slaves Fenris had seen, but he knew, in the recesses of his mind that was cuttingly realistic, that eventually even she would buckle under the hurt.

'_At least I will not be aware of it,'_ He thought bitterly, turning away from her at the sound of the carriage doors opening.

Danarius exited into the courtyard, keeping his balance on the wavering steps through many years of practice. Fenris' ears alerted him to the opposite carriage door opening, but the magister's companion scuttled straight into the manor, blocked from view by the vehicle they had left. Fenris gave them little thought; they had not joined Danarius in the courtyard, so they were one less threat to be concerned with for now. Instead, he focussed on the magister, allowing the barest grimace of triumph when Danarius turned his head to dismiss the stable boys, inadvertently revealing the two ugly puncture marks in his neck where Fenris had wounded him.

The man truly should not have survived that. Fenris had felt the carotid artery burst open; had felt the blood seep between the joints of his gauntlet to bathe his fingers. While not as rapid as slitting both branches of the artery at once, death was only minutes, if not seconds away once inflicted. The mage must have been treated the instant Hawke's group walked out of the Hanged Man's door.

The appearance of one of the stable hands clambering on the outside of the carriage to untie Fenris' leash and the sound of Danarius' voice snapped the elf sharply out of his musings. While the exceedingly wary slave at the other end of his rope merely earned himself a glance, the magister's orders made Fenris bristle, even though the magister wasn't even looking at him. He was issuing commands to the guards watching the slaves.

It was all more of the same, really. Take them to the slave quarters. Relieve them of any personal belongings they had. Assign them jobs to replace the slaves that had recently died. Find out which ones could read and write; if any. Usually the captured slaves were poor, or elvhen, or both. Most of them were illiterate, but sometimes the slavers would nab an educated person. Those that were literate were told the penalty for displaying such skills. If they were ever found writing; or even _looking_ at a book or written word; they had their index finger removed, or an eye depending on their crime. The threat was usually enough to put even the most rebellious of slaves off.

As one of the guards stepped forward to take Fenris' leash and allow the carriage to be wheeled inside, Danarius waved the small cluster of newly captured slaves away, along with their escort, but raised a hand to keep Hawke from following. Immediately Fenris' gut clenched with worry. Any slave feared being singled out by a magister, for any reason. And Hawke looked so vulnerable, now. The steely glint in her eyes hadn't changed, but everything else about her; from her sunken cheeks to the ill-fitting dress she now wore screamed _'fragile'_ to Fenris' senses.

And he was in no position to protect her.

With a silent snarl, Fenris surreptitiously eyed the rope connecting him to the guard. Hemp, by the looks of it. The tough fibres would take hours to cut through when the only tools he had at his disposal were the sharpened talons of his gauntlets. The leather collar was also in perfect condition, and the guard was watching his charge too closely for Fenris to simply untie the rope from the collar. Had he still been connected to the carriage he might have...what? Freed himself to move, only to be surrounded by ten or more of Danarius' guards? Made a mad rush for Hawke and the gates? If he'd had his lyrium talents, they might have managed it. Apart from her guards, Hawke was unbound, and he doubted wearing a dress would deter her from climbing the gates. After that they could have run; hidden themselves in the bustling Metropolis. Fenris was easily identified; he probably would have been captured again with so many on the lookout for Danarius' prized lyrium warrior, but Hawke would have stood a decent change of escaping, if he told her a way out of the city. If she left him behind. Which she wouldn't have done anyway.

Gritting his teeth, Fenris focussed on listening to what Danarius was saying. Idle fantasies never got him anywhere.

"...in a cell for now. I'll decide what to do with her later. I have more pressing matters to attend to at present,"

The magister turned, leaving the guards to pull Hawke towards the door to the slave quarters.

She dug her heels in; feet skittering across the paved stones. Fenris barely registered the sounds of her reluctance; his eyes were pinned on the approaching mage, his skin crawling at being under Danarius' control once again.

The magister raised his arms, as though greeting an old friend.

"Welcome home, my little Fenris," He said, his shark's eyes gleeful. He extended a hand, as though to pat the elf's cheek. Fenris eyed the approaching limb warily, his muscles stiffening as though bracing for a blow.

The magister gripped his chin in a surprisingly strong hand, forcing Fenris to look at him. Immediately the lyrium veins curving below Fenris' lower lip burned at the touch. It had taken years of Hawke's gentle caresses to stop the instinctive pain, and a single second for Danarius to bring it all rushing back. The warrior couldn't hide his narrowing eyes and the furious snarl that plucked at his lips.

With a sharp crack, Danarius struck Fenris with the back of his hand, snapping the elf's head aside with the well-practiced move.

"Don't be impudent, boy," The magister snarled, pointing a crooked finger at Fenris' nose as the warrior turned back to face his master, his sneer reduced but his eyes hardening to chips of glacial ice. Fenris twisted his wrists again; ignoring the beads of blood blooming in the chafed skin in his unconscious bid to escape even that physical bond once again.

It seemed to take a concentrated effort for Danarius to restrain himself before he snapped out more orders to the guards.

"Get this wretch into a cell until I call for him. I'll have to erase his memories immediately, it seems. I'll send for him soon," The magister sighed, before waving a dismissive hand and turning towards his manor to escape the oppressive Northern sun. Fenris' guard tugged on the rope, and the elf reluctantly followed, his eyes trained on the ground. He only glanced up when the sound of scuffling – which had faded into a constant background noise – stopped, and Hawke's guards stopped grumbling. She'd stopped resisting once she realised Fenris was being led after her, to the relief of her guards, and resumed a comparatively placid walk towards one of the side-doors in the courtyard.

The door was different to the others, which led either to the slave quarters or barracks, as it had thick iron bars across it and required a key. Some may consider it a magister's arrogance, to place the door to the dungeons in the courtyard, mere metres from the main gates, but very few prisoners even escaped their cells. None in Fenris' memory had ever made it as far as the door to the courtyard. The guards were too strict and cruel to allow many lapses in vigilance. The prisoners were their sole entertainment in the long shifts. There was almost always a guard in or near the cells to watch for any escapees.

However, it was this confidence that, when asked where to put each of the slaves, led the jailor in charge of the shift to shrug.

"Throw them in the same cell. They won't be there for long, anyway," He grunted, dismissing his men with a distracted wave of his hand as he went back to paring the skin from one of the other prisoners. The man was howling, blood beading his chest from the numerous lacerations. It was only as Hawke was tugged past the captain that she realised the shallow cuts formed a pattern. The word 'traitor' was being sliced into the skin, missing only the last letter and a half.

She looked away, sickened, but kept her face in a neutral mask when she noticed that the guards on either side of her were watching for her reaction. They still snorted laughs and swapped amused glances.

The cell they were pushed into was half as small as Gamlen's back room, and twice as repugnant.

The shove in Hawke's back was enough to knock her to the ground. Most would have gone sprawling, but she was used to getting knocked down in battles by larger opponents. Instead of trying to break her fall, Hawke rolled with it, twisting seamlessly from a roll into a crouch, then standing. It was only a supreme amount of willpower that quelled her reflexive reach for her concealed blades as Fenris followed her into the cell, stumbling from the push he received but able to maintain his feet.

The two captives waited in tense silence as the guards, laughing to themselves, locked the door and walked off, their footsteps fading away down the corridor.

Hawke waited until Fenris nodded the all-clear before relaxing and running a hand through her hair, grimacing at the lank state of it. With a sigh, she took the four steps to Fenris' side as the elf slid down the wall to sit on the ground, careless of the dirt on the ground. There was no avoiding it anyway.

Hawke knelt at his side, and to his mild surprise, produced a long, slim knife from her belt after a wary glance at the door. Fenris recognised it as one of her throwing knives from when they rescued the boy, Feynriel, from slavers.

"I'm surprised they let you keep that," He murmured as she started to examine his collar with a frown.

"The guards don't know I have them," She muttered, patting her belt to show she had a second blade tucked away, then cautiously trying to undo the clasps that held the collar in place at the side of his neck. His soft 'careful' was belated as she drew back with a sharp curse, shaking her mildly burnt fingers. "Blighted magisters," She grumbled, glaring at the inconspicuous leather. Fenris' lips quirked into his old half-smile.

"_Now_ you agree with me," He sighed, and chuckled at her grin as she lightly batted his arm.

"Magisters, yes. Mages, not yet," She murmured as she ignored the buckles on his collar and carefully started to slice through the front of it. No spells leapt out to singe her fingers, and they both relaxed slightly, Fenris tilting his head back so that she had more room to work, speaking carefully to keep his throat as still as possible to avoid any unnecessary cuts.

"They're one and the same, Hawke, if given enough time," He muttered, feeling more than seeing her non-committal, one-shouldered shrug.

"Perhaps. But if I feared mages, Fenris, I'd fear Bethany and Father. I don't know about you, but I'd find it hard to be scared of a sister who spent night after night crying herself to sleep because she was scared of her powers; or a father drinking too much on Satinalia and dancing the Remigold on the kitchen table with a bowl on his head," The fond note in Hawke's voice as she recounted her father's drunken antics was impossible to miss, and Fenris found himself snorting in amusement despite himself.

In silent, mutual agreement, they both dropped the old argument in favour of ridding Fenris of the detested choker quickly. After a few minutes of quiet sawing, the collar fell apart, slumping around Fenris' shoulders until he grabbed the offending piece of animal hide and threw it across the small room, then slowly rotated his head to work out the aches of being confined.

"Here, let me," Hawke murmured, tucking the knife away and nudging Fenris' side to make him turn. With a curious glance, he obliged and soon felt delicate, calloused fingers kneading the knotted muscle of his neck and shoulders. With a sigh, the warrior relaxed into the contact with a breath of thanks as Hawke reached as much of his back as she could past his armour. The pleasant pressure didn't last long; both were conscious of the limited time they would have undisturbed, and all too soon Hawke was pulling away and gently lifting his bound wrists and carefully examining the runed manacles whilst trying not to aggravate his already bruised and chafed skin.

Trying to pick the lock using the tip of her knife only resulted in a minor bolt of electricity flowing up the blade to shock the weapon out of her hand and leave blisters in its place. The bonds were too tight for Fenris to pull his hands free, and there were no weak links in the chain. Hawke's tame little knife couldn't break the links, even with all her strength put behind it and Fenris holding the chain taut. If Hawke had a greatsword with her, and could use it precisely enough to sever the chain and leave Fenris' arms intact, they might have been able to break it.

With a frustrated snarl, Hawke sat back and once again raked her hands through her hair, blade held away so that she didn't accidentally stab herself.

Fenris wasn't as perturbed by the lack of developments. He just let his aching arms drop and rested his head against the damp, moss covered wall.

"Leave it, Hawke. There's little point in freeing my hands, anyway. To my knowledge, no one has escaped these cells and managed to reach the city," He sighed, sending a weary glance at the door. Very dimly, he could hear the guards laughing and joking in their post, and much closer, prisoners screaming or moaning in pain. No one approached, however.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but none of the previous prisoners have been us, Fenris," She retorted, but her tired attempt at a grin took the bite from her words and drew a low laugh from the elf. Maker knows, they'd escaped and survived hundreds of deadly situations before where others would have failed.

But then, they'd had their friends at their backs and all of their weapons and armour. And they were free. Being isolated, imprisoned and powerless changed all of that.

Frowning, Hawke twisted to sit next to Fenris against the wall, idly spinning the knife between long fingers.

"The others must know something's happened by now," She murmured softly. Fenris raised his head and shifted to look at her as she continued. "Varric will have put his contacts to good use again; between him and Isabela, there are no secrets in Kirkwall," Hawke laughed. She wouldn't be surprised if there was a letter from the persuasive dwarf waiting for Danarius on his desk, politely demanding his friends back unless the magister wished to arrange a meeting with Bianca.

Fenris shrugged, turning away again with the action.

"Even if they have discovered what happened; what could they do? This isn't one mage and some soldiers in a foreign tavern, Hawke. This is a powerful, influential magister in the heart of the Imperium, with a small army at his beck and call. Here, Danarius is invulnerable to everyone except his peers; and he's had years of experience on surviving political assassination attempts," Fenris fixed her with a hard look that showed none of their old familiarity and fondness. It was odd and painful to see him look at her like a wary, isolated stranger again.

His next words stole the last of the warmth in her body. "Give up now, Hawke. The sooner you stop hoping for something better, the less it will hurt," His voice was soft, but unyielding. He refused to coddle her when it would mean lying to her, and though he regretted the flash of hurt in her eyes, he wouldn't regret being honest.

"Give up?" She asked, her voice as quiet as his, and far colder. Though he didn't show any outward emotion, Fenris felt something inside him quail at the glacial anger in her tone. He started to worry when she drew the blade from her belt again. "If I 'give up', Fenris, I might as well draw this knife across my throat right now!" Hers was a fierce whisper that made him freeze for an instant, then warily eye the blade she was waving in her hand.

She was brave enough to do it, he knew. If she truly felt there was no other way out of slavery, she would cut her own throat out.

Tense seconds passed before her eyes finally softened and her taut muscles relaxed. She hid the blade again and leant forward to speak, her eyes glinting with the same determination he'd seen a thousand times in better times.

"Fenris, I can't give up. I can't. Danarius has taken almost everything from me already. All I have left is you, and hope. And if you're right," Her voice wavered, not with tears, but a promise of anger as she reached out and gripped his hand tightly, "then soon he'll have taken you from me too," She whispered, fury and helplessness simmering in her voice. All Fenris could do was squeeze her fingers back and return her steady stare with his own as she took a calming breath. "If that happens, then all I'll have left is the hope that I can somehow get us out of this, or that a miracle will happen and Varric and the others will turn up with an army of Qunari at their backs. At least that would give the magisters pause for thought," She cracked a smile at the thought, one that he returned with a reluctant measure of relief. Gently, he lifted his hands to cradle her face, carefully running a gauntleted thumb across her prominent cheekbone.

"Just promise me one thing, then," He asked softly. Eyes bright with mischief, she tilted her head into his touch and grinned at him.

"I'll have to hear it first," She hedged, unwilling to promise something blindly and regret it later. He smiled at her ruefully and nodded his assent before continuing; silently luxuriating in being able to touch her without pain for what could be the last time.

"Fair enough. Promise me you won't antagonise Danarius or the guards unduly; you'll only make life more difficult for yourself. If you insist on holding onto the hope of Varric conquering the Imperium at the head of the Qunari horde-" They both breathed a laugh at the ridiculous image that conjured, "-then wait for an opportunity – don't try and create one. You'll only hurt yourself if you do," He pressed, until she lightly touched the back of his gauntlet with her hand and nodded her agreement.

"I promise I won't bait the magister on purpose," Hawke said softly through her smile, and felt Fenris relax. It must have been worrying him, she thought as he closed his eyes briefly in relief before turning that intense green gaze on her again.

"Thank you," He murmured, running his thumb across her cheek again, before dropping his hands slightly to repeat the action across her lower lip. Her eyes lowered at the touch, then she was leaning in and they were kissing almost desperately. It was stupid of him, he thought dimly as she pulled back for an instant to slip under the chain of his manacles and fully into his embrace before reclaiming his mouth with a low moan. This would only make the separation harder to bear, for both of them, but at the same time he couldn't imagine leaving her and not experiencing this one last time.

He buried one hand into her thick hair as he nipped at her lip, holding her close even as she moulded herself against him; one hand resting against the furious pounding of his heart as the other idly traced the sensitive shell of his ear to make him shudder.

In a cruel repeat of the past, the sound of footsteps outside the door reached them and made them freeze, inches apart, their gazes locked as realisation flooded through them, carrying away the traces of lust and leaving fear and adrenaline in its wake.

As the steps grew closer, Hawke bit her lip on her panic and turned it into anger. Anger she could use.

They quickly untangled themselves from each other and stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the door, Hawke swiftly checking that her knives were utterly concealed before dropping her hands to her sides in a deceptively relaxed posture. She didn't know what she was going to do when the door opened, but she couldn't let Fenris go without one last fight. From the slight hint of tension in the shoulder pressing against hers, he was planning the same thing.

One last try for a miracle, then they'd wait for one. Because no matter what Fenris said, neither of them would give up on hope. Now that he knew what it was, he was reluctant to let it, and the woman standing at his side, go.

With the smile of a more confident, free man, Fenris shook his head. Reluctant? He wouldn't fool himself anymore.

He couldn't let her go. Not now.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey people! Here's the next chapter of this increasingly dark fic. After this is when the story really starts, I think, and the next chapter is one that I've had in mind for quite a while now.

I do know that there seem to be a lot of escape attempts/fights, and I'm sorry if it seems a little...monotonous or predictable, but the way I see it is that (in game) Hawke, Fenris and co. cut down everything that stood in their way, no matter how tough - they're not accustomed to defeat. It's like they think that these fights have been flukes so far, and that if they keep launching themselves at the guards, then the flukes will stop and they'll become their usual indomitable selves again. They also have a lot to lose - and a lot to fear. That's why there's so many breaks for freedom - both are desperate to escape, and are willing to try increasingly reckless stunts to do so.

In other news, I thought I'd tell you that as of about...oooh, three chapters ago, I started writing a scene from much later in the fic because it wouldn't leave me alone, so rest assured when the story comes around to those chapters, the updates shouldn't be as long (she says). I don't want to spoil anything, but I can almost guarentee that your reaction to this particular scene will be...interesting, to say the least. Yes, I'm in an evil mood today. It's kind of a requirement for this fic XD

As usual, if there are any errors, please don't hesitate to point them out and help me become a better writer. I love getting feedback from you guys, especially if it's constructive!

Anyway, after this rather long A/N, I will let you get on with the chapter - enjoy!

**Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Bioware.**

* * *

><p>The key rasped in the lock, and the door swung outwards to show five guards crowded around the doorway, cudgels and spears in hand. None seemed willing to be the first to enter the tiny cell; Hawke noticed. There were a few calculating glances shot between the group before one man, armed with a spear levelled at their chests, carefully stalked forward as though wary of an attack.<p>

He was right to be. As soon as he had stepped fully into the room, but before he'd moved aside for the other guards to follow him, Hawke darted forward, ducked under the wildly jabbing spear and buried the stiffened fingers of her right hand into his solar plexus, snatching the spear out of his grasp with her other hand as the guard grunted and collapsed, his arms wrapped around his middle.

Before his fellows could climb past him and surround them, Hawke lifted the spear and slammed the butt of it into the back of the downed guard's skull, knocking him senseless.

She leapt back to avoid the second guard's jab to her ribs, and backed further into the cell, drawing their attention as the guards cautiously edged into the cell.

From the way their eyes darted, she knew they could tell something was wrong.

"Hey, where's the-" The guard's unfinished question was answered by a choked gargle from behind him, and the clatter of a dropped cudgel.

The guards spun to look for the source of the noise. The last guard to walk into the cell was clawing futilely at the chain digging into his throat, his gloved hands scrabbling uselessly at the gauntleted hands behind and at either side of his neck, holding the chain taut.

For an instant, Fenris locked gazes with Hawke, then his eyes slid away to survey the shouting guards and their pointless demands that he let their comrade go.

From that split-second of contact, Hawke understood. He was distracting the others to give her an easy kill.

Not willing to waste the few seconds of distraction he'd bought her, Hawke swept the point of the spear up and drove it between the closest guard's ribs, angling it up into his lung. He dropped with a wet rattle of breath as she pulled the spire of wood out of his side and turned on nearest of the last two guards standing. He was already turning, his eyes wide with surprise. He tried to jump back as Hawke jabbed the bloody weapon forward, but he collided with the wall of the cramped cell. The spear plunged through leather armour, cloth, skin and muscle, driving right through his body and striking against the stone.

The rogue was forced to abandon her weapon and leap back when the last guard standing gave up on his standard weapons and drew a short sword from his back, lunging forward at her ribs. The man had apparently forgotten all orders to bring the two out alive in his desperation to survive; his eyes were wild and his breathing erratic with fear.

In his distracted state, he missed the dull 'crack!' from behind him; too focussed on hitting the agile rogue as she dodged his wild slashes and stabs. Hawke, however, recognised the sound of a snapped neck, and the following 'thud' of a body hitting the floor.

She was distracted from Fenris' kill by the crazed guard finally herding her into a corner of the tiny cell, her narrow back hitting two walls.

Hawke eyed the guard warily, ready to dive out of the way of any incoming blows since she couldn't bloc k them, even though her skin was tingling with the proximity of the walls, telling her there was nowhere to move when he struck, nor enough room to disarm him.

The guard's arm rose, the blade angled for a downward strike behind her collarbone and down into her heart.

The sword didn't fall more than an inch before a chain arrested its movement then, with a sharp jerk, tugged the weapon out of the guard's hand. The man had enough time to widen his eyes and half-turn before the blade jutted sharply out of his stomach, twisted, and retracted.

The man fell with a choked whimper and Fenris dropped his blade next to the body, sparing a scornful sneer before lifting his eyes to Hawke, his gaze flitting across her form quickly.

"Are you hurt?" He asked; the tension of the fight still in his voice. Hawke shook her head and stepped away from the wall, only then noticing just how laboured her breathing was, along with the fine trembling of her arms and legs.

Just a few minutes of mild combat and she was already tired. With a quiet, frustrated growl, Hawke clenched her fists to hide the shaking and forced her breathing into a more regular pattern. A single glance at Fenris showed he'd noticed, however.

With a grimace, she gave him a brief explanation as she, her eyes lighting on his severed collar, grabbed the dropped blade, cleaned it on the guard's uniform, and replaced it next to the ruined leather.

"No, but I'm in poor fighting condition. While you had drills and regular food and water on the ship, I didn't. Danarius obviously wants me too weak to fight back," She explained, smirking briefly at the carnage they'd caused around them. Danarius hadn't been entirely successful in his venture.

"Or to escape," Fenris agreed, turning towards the gaping door as she stepped away from the wall to stand at his side, both of them cautiously peering out into the corridor. Their short scuffle with the guards couldn't have lasted longer than four minutes, but that was enough time for any nearby guards to be alerted to the fight – it hadn't exactly been quiet. Yet the hallway was quiet except for the occasional whimper from another cell.

"Let's go," Hawke breathed and made to duck out of the door, but a hand on her wasted arm stalled her.

She turned her head, a curious frown marring her brow.

"Fenris?" There was a note of impatience there, and expectation. He met her gaze levelly, however.

"Do you want to risk it?" He asked, the pressure of his fingers urging her to give an honest answer.

Hawke couldn't help staring at him in astonishment.

"No, Fenris, I'd rather become a slave for some bastard of a magister and watch you lose your memories _again_, which is why I'm about to run out of the blighted _prison door_," She retorted. He glowered briefly at her in response.

"Hawke..." His voice held a warning note that she cut off swiftly, shrugging off his hand and scowling now as though this was some perverse joke of his.

"Well, what did you expect, Fenris? Of course I want to risk it – I don't want us to become slaves. I don't want _any_ of this to happen to us, and if I can avoid it, I will!" Hawke hissed, spinning to face him fully now, her hair whipping about her face with the movement.

As though to contain her building outrage, Fenris gripped both of her arms again, the chain between the manacles straining across her chest, dipping his head the scarce few inches necessary to be on eye-level with her as he bit out his words hastily.

"Think of the consequences if you fail," He ordered her. "The punishment for killing these guards is severe enough; the penalty for an escaped slave is even steeper. Which would you rather; a slave flogged for resisting the guards, or permanently crippled for fleeing their master?"

It always came back to this.

Instead of hopelessly trying to shake him off again, Hawke gripped his arms in return, squeezing them tightly. She was still glowering, but she reigned in the temper that saturated her words.

"And what would you prefer; forcing the guards to kill you, free, or quietly accepting a life of slavery? I don't know if you can do the latter, Fenris, but I can't. Even if Danarius cripples me; at least I'd have tried. I'd be able to say that much," Hawke's voice had dropped to just more than a fervent whisper, one that was almost scornful. It occurred to Fenris then that it was the first time Hawke had spoken to him in such a way. She'd been annoyed, even angry at him before, but never had she used this disdainful tone.

In some remote area of his mind, one unaffected by the stress of his situation, Fenris realised she was baiting him to draw a truthful answer out of him, one not compromised by his protectiveness, but he shoved the revelation aside and retaliated, regardless.

"I'd die free, as you well know, Hawke," He snarled, giving her a slight shake. Not enough to harm, just to emphasise.

"Then do not expect me to do differently," Was her fierce reply; matching his tone exactly. Realising he'd lost the argument, Fenris grudgingly released her and took a step back, only feeling the negligible sting of her nails as she removed them from his arm. They stood separated by a few inches for a moment, both glaring. Then in some invisible, mutual agreement, they set the quarrel aside and ventured out into the corridor, Hawke snatching up two daggers from different bodies as they left, Fenris seizing one since he doubted he'd be able to use either his customary greatsword or two daggers at once effectively whilst still manacled.

As they slipped past the other cells, voices shouted out to them; arms reached between bars. Hawke slowed, indecisive. Noticing, Fenris shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line.

"You can't save everyone, Hawke. We've wasted enough time as it is; and these wouldn't survive on the run even if they did escape the estate," He said firmly. She shook her head slowly, casting an uncertain look at the nearest cell.

"I know. It's not that – if we let them out; it'll cause more confusion among any guards in the courtyard. We could use that to our advantage," She murmured, her voice too low to be heard by their fellow prisoners. She was grimacing in distaste at her own suggestion, but there was an unyielding glint in her eye. If they wanted to escape this place and survive, they had to use every resource available to them – if that included other prisoners, then so be it. Hawke was determined to get them both out of here; but especially Fenris.

Her frown deepened when Fenris nodded almost immediately. She hated that she had already resorted to such measures – and that Fenris seemed unperturbed by them. But, Hawke guessed as Fenris backtracked to loot the keys from the guard they'd killed, he'd been in this kind of situation before. Hadn't they met through Fenris essentially using her and her friends to save himself?

Fenris returned swiftly, handing her the keys. Hawke pushed her doubts out of her mind and set about opening the cells. Most tried to bolt for the courtyard immediately, like dogs out of a gate, but Fenris detained them. If they had any hope of causing an effective distraction, everyone had to burst out together.

In all, there were seven other prisoners; two of which were too badly injured to stand, much less leave their cells. They stared out balefully as the others massed in the corridor, a mob of nervous energy and barely contained panic.

With some difficulty, Hawke caught their attention and they quieted. However, their stares were blank; uncomprehending as she started to outline their crude plan. They didn't speak Common.

Before Hawke could start truly worrying, Fenris stepped forward and started to explain in Arcanum, letting her relax as five pairs of eyes brightened with understanding. When Fenris fell quiet with what sounded like a question, one of the men spoke up. The warrior responded with a scathing rally of Arcanum that Hawke had no hope of following. The prisoner seemed convinced, however, and nodded, cowering slightly.

Fenris turned to Hawke's perplexed eyebrow, and raised his own in question.

"Any problems?" She asked, arms folded. He shook his head with a rueful grin.

"He asked if Danarius would disapprove if they left their cells, of all things," He responded, his impatience still evident in his tone. Hawke suddenly understood why his voice had been so contemptuous. "I told him that Danarius fully intended to let him be tortured to death in his cell; so he would do better to attempt to flee now and stand a chance of surviving – or at least dying quickly – than languishing in agony in here for months. He didn't have any further questions," Hawke had to press her lips together to stop them from quirking up at the faint note of amusement in Fenris' voice. He noticed, and one corner of his mouth tilted up in response. Her black sense of humour still remained, it seemed.

"Ready, then?" Hawke asked, and he nodded. "Then let's go." As she turned to face the courtyard door, Fenris issued the same order in Arcanum to the prisoners before following.

His hand on her shoulder stopped her from kicking the door open and rushing the guards outside it. Glancing at him in surprise, he shook his head and held a finger to his lips for silence, before quite calmly turning to the door and trying the handle.

While Hawke jumped in shock then tried, ineffectually but silently, to pull him away, Fenris easily fended off her attempts and cursed loudly in Arcanum, before calling through the door impatiently, his voice pitched just slightly higher than normal, his accent a lot thicker than when he'd been addressing the prisoners. Hawke stilled, realisation slowly dawning as a guard answered the elf amicably and keys rattled.

The second the door opened and the guard looked up from the lock; Fenris grabbed him by the front of his armour and effortlessly hauled him into the corridor with one hand, the other ramming his stolen blade into the guard's throat before the shock had even registered on the man's face.

A second face appeared from behind the door, frowning in consternation. The second guard, probably wondering who had kidnapped his shift partner. Without waiting for Fenris to react, Hawke lunged forward and crossed her blades through the second man's throat.

Fenris barked out a quick order in Arcanum, his voice returned to normal, and the other prisoners streamed out into the sunlight as their elvhen leader tossed the guard's body aside and dove after them, Hawke at his side.

The screams of injured prisoners started almost as soon as they stepped out of the shadows, however. Hawke blinked away the blindness of the bright light and focussed on the barricade of soldiers before them; the other prisoners either already dead or impaled on drawn blades. Hawke's hopes drowned in their spilled blood as she realised they'd fled straight into a trap.

"Imitating a guard? Quite an ingenious ruse, pet. Had I not been here, you might have taken everyone by surprise for long enough to reach the gates. Fortunately, I know your voice far too well." Danarius stepped out from behind his Captain of the guard, what he thought to be an unassuming look on his face. All Hawke could see was arrogance, and a perverse glee and thwarting yet another of their attempts to run. "I anticipated some sort of final, desperate escape attempt, but this is intriguing. You sought an alliance with the other prisoners? Or perhaps you have retained some of your ruthless nature and hoped to sacrifice them to buy yourself and the Champion more time?" Hawke bit her tongue, and she felt more than heard Fenris' low, wordless snarl beside her. Anywhere else, Fenris was a completely unpredictable enemy. Here, the opposite was true – all because of Danarius. Again.

She knew it was foolish, and pointless. But there was a dagger in her hand, and Danarius was no longer covered by his guard. It wasn't a throwing blade; it would be ineffective if cast normally...but the distance was so short...

Without stopping to actually consider the impulse flooding her muscles, Hawke shifted her grip on the blade, drew her arm back, and threw the dagger like a javelin.

It arched through the air, sinking rapidly to heart level.

Metal screamed and clashed; a guard fell with the blade embedded in his shoulder. He'd intercepted it just on time; a split second later and it would have passed him.

As he fell, Hawke had the satisfaction of seeing a moment of shock on the magister's face before she lunged forward to meet the guards swarming her; Fenris' back whirling to meet hers as they fell into their familiar fighting positions.

It was a short, desperate, and ultimately futile fight. Of the twenty waiting guards, Hawke and Fenris managed to fell twelve of them before being disarmed and restrained. Had they not been so heavily outnumbered; had Danarius not been there, they might have succeeded. They'd faced worse odds before, after all. Back in Kirkwall, twenty men and a mage were a decent work out. Not now.

Even with three guards pinning her arms behind her back, twisting them painfully, Hawke kept struggling, lunging away from them at sharp angles that threatened to break her arms or shoulders, her teeth bared in a feral snarl; the sounds escaping her equally wild as she was dragged bodily from the courtyard, back towards the cells.

It wasn't recapture that rendered her so crazed. Three of the remaining guards were having as much trouble with Fenris as Hawke's guards were with her. But he wasn't being returned to the dungeon.

"Get this ungrateful cur into my workshop. I want him properly restrained by the time I return. I'd prefer him conscious while I remove his memories, but sedate him if you have to. _Venhedis_, this was far simpler when he was a willing volunteer," This last the magister muttered to himself as the struggling warrior was hauled away; towards the opposite side of the yard and another door.

With another desperate heave, Hawke upset one of her captors balance and got an arm free; sinking her elbow into his stomach before trying to twist free of the other two. With a curse, her other arm was freed, only for them to be pinned to her sides as she was lifted clean off the ground by one guard as the second circled around to try and grab her legs. In response, Hawke kicked out as high and as far as she could, catching him in the chin with her heel. The second guard dropped like a felled tree as the first one approached her warily, rubbing his stomach.

He waited until his kicked comrade had regained his feet, and between them they managed to restrain her lashing legs. It was in this manner that Hawke was carried back to her cell, writhing and snarling the whole way, craning her neck to try and see Fenris and shouting his name, even after he was long out of sight.

The three guards dropped her in an open cell; one kicked her in the head as she scrambled to recover from her awkward landing.

Curling up to cradle the pounding, disorientating pain in her skull, Hawke dimly heard the men laughing as her cell door slammed shut and the lock snickered along with them.

It was a long time before the pain dulled to a low throb and Hawke finally lowered her hands. She laid where she'd fallen, staring vacantly at the cell door, her thoughts simultaneously blank and thrumming too quickly to comprehend. They became nothing more than white noise; preventing her from focussing on anything in particular. It was a blessing, in a way, because it stopped her acknowledging the crushing grief of failure. The knowledge of it was there; just on the periphery of her thoughts, waiting to be glanced at. She just couldn't bring herself to leave the sanctuary of numbness she was currently hiding in.

That would mean remembering Fenris, and how she'd failed _him_.

But she couldn't hold memory at bay for long; that faint flicker of recognition forced itself to the forefront of her mind with painful clarity.

Fenris, suffering right now. Fenris in agony, until that was all he had left. Fenris, Fenris, Fenris.

Hope broke within her like a wave dashed against a rock; cracking and fracturing into oblivion.

Because she couldn't run now, and nor would he.

She should have been grief-stricken, she thought, but there was just hollowness; as though this had been inevitable. All this time, Hawke had thought that this time, they'd escape. This time, Danarius would die. It had seemed inconceivable that she and Fenris would fail – it had never happened before, after all. In Kirkwall, they were unstoppable. It was only now, as the torches slowly burned themselves out and left her in darkness that Hawke bitterly acknowledged that they could be beaten.

Turning into the floor, the hair falling across her face didn't quite hide the glint of bared teeth as she fought back the raw emotion that seared her throat.

Not grief. Fury. Fury mingled with helplessness and the desperation of a cornered animal.

Bloody, broken nails scraped the floor as her hands curled into fists; but violence wouldn't resolve anything here, and she'd promised Fenris that she would try not to invite the magister's ire – no doubt her life would be difficult enough without heaping punishments for insolence on top of everything else.

But Fenris wouldn't hold her to that promise anymore. He wouldn't remember it – wouldn't remember her. He was right; she would just be another slave in his master's household, and that was only if he saw her. Danarius might try to keep them apart – after all, Hawke stood the best chance of reawakening Fenris' memories. If nothing else, the magister wouldn't want to waste resources on wiping Fenris' memory for a third time.

'_So, what? I should just resign myself to this?'_ The thought struck her like one of Bianca's bolts. _'I'm just going to become the quiet little slave who does as her master tells her?'_ Even the thought made her grimace.

'_And Fenris...'_ Her eyes softened as they landed on the bolt of crimson cloth bound about her wrist. The crest was digging into her stomach where it was held tightly, hidden by her belt along with the daggers.

Her fingers skimmed across the vibrant fabric, remembering what she'd promised those months ago on the ship.

"_Keep them safe, Hawke. Promise me."_

_"I will, on one condition."_

_"Which is, Champion?"_

_"That I give them back to you."_

A bitter smile lifted a corner of her mouth. Slavery had seemed so distant then; so impossible. She'd promised, assuming that they would be able to escape before fulfilling such a vow was necessary.

That was the result of her own arrogance, Hawke realised. Despite enduring almost daily attacks and ambushes, Hawke and her 'merry band of misfits' had always come out of the encounters relatively unscathed, no matter how numerous their opponents were, nor how powerful.

She may not have been obvious about it, but being Champion had gone to her head. Hawke hadn't put on airs, or thought herself better than those less well off the way the other nobles did – but she became overconfident in her own abilities as a fighter. She'd always had a flashy style, but she'd started to take less care in battle, because she could afford it.

If only the experience that brought her crashing back to humility hadn't cost Fenris as well as her.

Voices sounded from the corridor; getting closer. Idly, Hawke wondered how long she'd been lying there. Hours, at least. Half a day? A day, even? She couldn't gauge how long she'd been here by how hungry she was – she'd been in a state of semi-starvation for the past two months. Hunger was a constant, unshakable friend now. The pain in her skull had dulled, however, and tentative exploration revealed a painful bruise and what felt like a lump the size of a dragon egg.

Only now becoming aware of the chill that wracked her, Hawke slowly sat up, wincing as the blood rushed away from her head and made the injury throb again.

Outside, she identified one of the voices – weary, impatient – as Danarius. The other she assumed was a guard.

When she heard the keys rattle, Hawke pushed herself to her feet before the door opened. She refused to kneel before the magister unless specifically ordered to – and even then she would only comply out of respect for Fenris' wish.

Abruptly the reality of the situation rushed in on her. If Danarius was here, after so many hours had passed, then Fenris...

As the door swung open, Hawke had to clench her hands to quell the urge to reach for her concealed blades and punch them into the mage's chest as he entered the cell.

The man that shuffled in was slumped with fatigue, but there was a triumphant glint in his eyes as he straightened and surveyed his battered prisoner.

Hawke was careful to keep some distance between them, but didn't back up against the wall. She needed to appear strong here, otherwise Danarius would think her cowed. And though being underestimated in her early years in Kirkwall had always proved an advantage, the opponents she'd faced there had been poor fighters, or lacking in decent armour, weapons or teamwork. By the time Hawke had started being targeted by more worrying enemies, she was surrounded by a team of strong, capable fighters that trusted each other and worked well together, personal disputes aside.

She had none of that now.

The magister seemed to take the empty space around her as an invitation to invade it, slowly circling the rogue. The motion wasn't threatening, however. It was more...clinical. He was inspecting her, she realised. While they had lived in Lothering, she'd seen the same look of critical evaluation on many a farmer's face when they were purchasing livestock at the farmer's meets.

The swell of anger and humiliation was sudden enough to shock her; Hawke's jaw jumped with its rapid, uncontrollable contraction and the relaxation she forced upon it.

As Danarius swept around to face her again, his apathetic eyes still roaming over her, he nodded once.

"Not bad, not bad...probably look better after being cleaned. However...strong enough to carry out some of the more demanding tasks. No obvious physical impairments –"

"Would you like to check my teeth as well?" Hawke snapped coldly, glowering but managing to hold her clenched fist by her side instead of burying it in the magister's stomach.

She silently berated herself for giving in to the mage's baiting, but showed no sign of her regret as Danarius gave a thin smile.

"No need, my dear – your snarling makes it quite obvious that your teeth are in fine repair," He replied whimsically. Hawke wondered what the penalty for beating a magister's brains out was in Tevinter.

"Now, I came down here to inform you of a few rules that you should be aware of. And before you ask, there is good reason for you to be singled out from the rest of my new stock," He paused, waiting to see if she would react. By biting the side of her tongue, Hawke managed to keep her fury reined in and her hands clean of blood. Unfazed, Danarius continued, his flat eyes watching keenly for any emotional reaction.

"I will be leaving you down here for a few weeks – your little escape attempt deserves punishment, after all. Normally, I would give instructions for you to be locked in a cell for the guards to play with until they grew bored and finally killed you. However...you are not the average slave. I'm loathe to lose the Champion of Kirkwall before I get the opportunity to show you off to my peers, you understand," Danarius' ingratiating smile confirmed Hawke's earlier prediction – she was a bragging point.

"Instead, you will remain here for...two weeks, I think, then you will join the rest of the slaves in maintaining the estate and providing for your master in every way possible. If you are disobedient, you will be punished for it. If you commit a grave crime, one that warrants a higher punishment than I am willing to give you, another slave will take your place. You would do well to remember that," He smiled when he saw her eyes first widen, then narrow in rage. She shouldn't have been so surprise – Danarius had already proved his willingness to kill others in retaliation to her actions. Atisha and Sulahn were perfect examples of the magister's ruthlessness.

He wasn't finished, however.

"There is also the matter of my favourite pet, which needs to be addressed," Danarius mused. Hawke suppressed the urge to leap, snarling, to Fenris' defence. He neither knew nor cared what she felt for him now. Instead, the rogue stared at the magister with cold eyes, trying to inject the steel of her blades into the look. Danarius continued, wilfully ignorant of her glares.

"He has no memory of you or his previous lives. I wish it to remain so. Your incarceration here is, in part, to prevent any potential triggers so soon after having his memories locked away. A few weeks away from anything or anyone that may remind him of his...sojourn outside of the Imperium should allow his current situation to become prevalent in his mind," He paused, glancing at Hawke as though to check she understood everything she was being told. Her pale face and locked jaw evidently answered his silent query. With just a hint of a smile, the magister continued to explain.

"So you see, even if he does catch a glimpse of you once you are released, or even speak to you, his fresh memories will suppress the old ones, as well as my magic and the general nature of the procedure. You will mean nothing to him, because here, you _are_ nothing. However...if you cannot resist your urge to rebel, I may find it prudent to exact the punishment on him," Maker damn her, but that elicited a reaction from her. Hawke startled, staring at the mage for a moment, almost uncomprehendingly. While she froze, weakened muscles quivering with shock and delayed anger, Danarius took the opportunity to elaborate, a savage enjoyment lighting his face.

"Because of course, you may mean nothing to him, but he means...a great deal to you. It would be wise to think before you act, my dear, because you may not be the one to suffer for your actions."

Hawke shook, something close to a convulsion passing through her as she fought with the searing heat that engulfed her insides. It wanted to drive her towards the blandly smiling man before her, to tear his skin open, to bury her fingers in his eye sockets and deep into his unprotected brain. It wanted to see his blood running in streams along the floor to the gutter in the hall.

Her protectiveness and sense of self-preservation interrupted the urge before her arms could lift and her body could lunge forwards. Instead, she stood in the centre of the cell, quaking silently as Danarius smirked and stepped closer.

"So tell me, pet. Will you behave yourself from now on?" He sounded so innocuous; as though he were actually giving her a choice, when really all she could do was clench her fists, lower her blurring, burning eyes and murmur her bitter response.

"Yes, master."


	7. Chapter 7

Hello everyone! I think I'm as surprised as you are that I've posted two updates in a month. I wonder if I can make it three...No, I don't blame you for laughing at the mere concept. I am too.

Anyway, here's one of the ideas that have been floating around in my mind from the start - though it was more just the basic premise of Fenris' P.O.V. than anything else. The rest of the chapter, as usual, wrote itself. Also as usual, **Bioware owns everything**, and I've not given this a thorough proof-reading - just a quick skim over, so any feedback/corrections will be appreciated!

Thank you to everyone who reads this, and an extra thank you goes out to mille libri, who helped me with my punctuation problems - I think I've caught all of my relapses, mille libri, (of which there were many XD) but if not, you and everyone else are free to correct me :)

Not really much else to say, to be honest. So...yeah. Enjoy?

* * *

><p>The gathered mages were still flicking nervous glances in his direction, even though their meeting with his master was nearing its second hour.<p>

Stifling his impatience, Fenris shifted slightly, silently, exchanging his weight from one foot to the other where he stood a few feet behind Danarius' chair.

Despite his increasing boredom, however, Fenris' eyes still roamed over each foreign face and back again, alert for any signs of treachery from his master's peers or their personal guards. Those men simply returned Fenris' dispassionate look, long accustomed to threatening situations. The lyrium warrior was certainly terrifying, in a quiet way – like the terror inspired by the unknown monster lurking in the dark.

But so far, he'd not employed any of the subtle scare tactics the magisters' bodyguards favoured to entertain themselves at meetings. He'd just lingered, his posture relaxed, almost lazy even though he supported a blade almost as long as he was tall on his back, apparently without effort. The only alert thing about him was his eyes; despite their slow journey over the room's occupants, they glinted with awareness. This was one guard who wouldn't be taken by surprise. He was disconcerting, definitely, but his fellow bodyguards were accustomed to keeping their reactions hidden. They were unnerved by him, of course, but they didn't show it – unlike their wary masters, who almost sighed with relief when Danarius finally called the meeting to a close.

Glad to be moving soon, Fenris straightened his posture, rolling his head on his neck and circling his shoulders to lessen the dull ache there as the other mages filed out, frequently shooting glances over their shoulders at Danarius prize creation.

As the great doors swung shut behind the last visitor, Danarius sighed and settled back in his throne-like chair, content with the outcome of the meeting.

"You did well, pet. That was a very successful first meeting. Those fools would have signed their own death warrants just to get away from you sooner...or to get a look at my research so they could acquire their own lyrium warriors." The smirk on Danarius' face was audible, Fenris thought as he moved to pull the magister's chair out and gather his papers for him.

As soon as he'd gathered the various files, Fenris followed his master to the study, listening silently to the mage's satisfied boasting.

The corridor leading to Danarius' personal quarters was deserted except for the guards. Keeping half an ear on what his master was saying in case he was required to offer a comment, Fenris dropped his gaze to the files in his arms, then nearly dropped the files as he froze.

Slaves weren't meant to read. They couldn't.

He could.

Though Fenris' mind remained paralysed with shock, his body continued moving forwards after only the barest hesitation that went unnoticed by Danarius.

With a nervous glance at the mage's back, Fenris tentatively lowered his eyes back to the top file.

'_Matrinalis Schedule'_. What followed was a list of dates and meetings, penned in a flowing script. Fenris found today's date, 12 Matrinalis – _August_ his thoughts echoed – and, below it:

'_Meet with the other Houses, reveal Fenris. Lessons.'_

The warrior snapped his gaze away from the lines of ink, the only sign of his internal panic the frantic pounding of his heart.

Looking desperately for some explanation, Fenris ransacked the two and a half weeks in his memory for any way he could have learnt something without actually _learning_ it, and found nothing. Just endless training exercises, trailing Danarius around his estate, being told the many rules he had to live by – and somehow remembering them after only hearing them once, which was a relief since Danarius only explained them that one time. Then, the farthest back he could remember, agony. Icy fire searing his veins, deathly tendrils already taken up residence in his mind. No matter how often or how hard he pushed his memory, he couldn't break past that recollection of pain. It was as though there was nothing there; as though he'd been born two and half weeks ago.

However, he'd never had as much incentive as this to breach that barrier and find the old memories that he knew must be there somewhere. Fenris didn't know exactly how old he was, but decades of memories couldn't simply be _gone_. And in those memories would be the answers he sought.

With another wary glance at Danarius, Fenris grit his teeth and launched an assault on his own memory, determined to drive the veil of agony back and reveal his past.

The pain just went on and on. Fenris didn't know if it was the same moment, replayed over and over again, or if he was succeeding and revealing weeks or months of unrelenting burning.

When he realised, dimly, that his breathing had accelerated, Fenris reluctantly gave up the attempt as they approached the study door for a time when he wasn't accompanying his master.

With just a thought, he controlled his breathing again and made sure his face was as impassive as he could make it as he deposited the files on Danarius' elaborate desk. A work of art, crafted out of rock taken from the deep roads, lines of processed lyrium ghosting through its surface. Fenris hated being near it – though the lyrium in it was processed (and thus of no danger to its owner) it still made his markings sing with foreign, uncomfortable energy.

Quickly, Fenris backed away from the desk a few steps and waited for his new orders as Danarius sat at his desk and held out a sealed scroll in Fenris' direction.

"Hand this to the guard outside the door and wait until he returns. After that, you are dismissed," the magister commanded, not even looking up from his papers as Fenris took the scroll from him with a nod and a murmur of 'yes, master', and headed for the door.

The guard took one look at the scroll and headed off, evidently understanding the message on the outside of the paper that Fenris had studiously avoided looking at lest he give himself away.

While he waited, the elf leaned against the wall next to the study door and thought, his arms folded, a faint frown on his brow.

He carefully prodded the extent of his memory, and once again came up blank.

Sighing softly, he once again tried to break through the constraints on his mind, but it is difficult to fight your own mind. For the ten minutes it took the guard to return, Fenris barraged his memory, trying anything he could think of to access a memory older than the pain. Nothing worked, and all he'd succeeded in doing by the time the guard relieved him of his post was conjure up a hideous headache and frustrate himself.

The warrior knew he should probably use this time to eat or sleep, but instead he paced out into the courtyard, working out the self-induced anger and hoping the cool breeze off the Nocen Sea would clear his head of the pounding fog that clouded it.

He barely noticed the other slaves that scuttled out of his way as he headed for the training ground – he had already grown accustomed to their fear, and resigned himself to being isolated from slave and citizen alike.

What did stand out to him, however, was when one slave utterly froze upon seeing him.

Fenris lifted his scowl from the ground and focussed on the woman, intent on driving her off like the others as soon as her terrified paralysis broke.

His frown deepened. She hadn't moved. And she wasn't scared.

The lyrium warrior watched, fascinated, as a range of emotions manifested themselves on her thin face.

Shock. Recognition. Relief. _Joy?_

Realisation. Pain. Sadness. Grief?

Her eyes lowered for a moment, a futile attempt to mask her own emotions, then lifted again to meet his startled ones. Who was this woman?

Intrigued, he warily moved towards her. He paused a few feet away, still uncertain. She managed to smile at him, though, even though weariness and something akin to panic was stamped on her features in the gaunt lines of her face and the dark shadows around her widened eyes.

"Fenris?" Hers was a hoarse whisper, as though she wasn't sure he'd respond.

Increasingly baffled by her odd behaviour, Fenris nodded, and only then did it strike him as odd that she knew his name.

"You...know me?" He ventured, still held firmly in place by the strangeness of the situation. What was one meant to do when confronted with someone you no longer remembered?

The woman nodded, a bitter smile broaching her face.

"I do. Did. I..." she struggled for words for a moment, evidently suffering the same problem he was afflicted with, then let out her breath in a rush and gave another resentful smile. "I'm Hawke. I know you don't remember me, Fenris, but we were... we were friends." Fenris frowned at her hesitation. It sounded as though she had planned to say something else, but changed her mind.

Putting it out of his mind, and to delay the real concern she'd raised, he considered her name. Hawke. It was almost certainly a family name and an unusual way to introduce yourself. Though perhaps it made her feel safer here – having the shield of a surname to hide behind; Fenris wouldn't know.

Finally, her last statement refused to be pushed aside any longer. Friends. He found it hard to believe – the other slaves had already made it clear that his association with them wasn't welcome. Why would this Hawke be any different?

He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. He noticed that her eyes kept flickering to his forehead.

Frowning slightly, feeling a flutter of defensiveness, he caught her eyes again.

"What is it?" He asked. It was her turn to squirm now, but she fidgeted only for a moment.

"They're new. Those ones," she muttered, her hand reaching as though to brush across his forehead. Instinctively, Fenris tensed slightly and drew back fractionally. A normal slave wouldn't have noticed such subtle movements, but Hawke had halted as soon as his muscles flickered. Despite the brief glimmer of hurt that darkened her eyes, she instead lifted her fingers to fan out over her own brow, in imitation of the lyrium markings marring his. Her arm then dropped as she wrapped both around herself.

It was only just autumn – surely she couldn't be cold when it was still as hot as the Tevinter summer?

Pushing that detail aside, Fenris was surprised; he didn't expect such consideration. He loathed being touched – he had already learned that it was used to cause pain, nothing more – but he was also resigned to being touched despite his wishes. Danarius was fond of retracing the silver veins inscribed into his skin, enjoying the result of his work, and Fenris had learnt to suppress his shudders of revulsion when his master reached out his knotted hands to him.

Then her words, briefly forgotten in his keenness to avoid contact, came back to him, and he raised a perplexed eyebrow. The motion shifted the fine vines of lyrium that branched out horizontally from the three circles in the centre of his forehead. They wended their way across his skin in the same vague pattern as his other markings, though he'd noticed that these and some others on the rest of his body looked more akin to scars than the other markings. He'd not known what to make of the difference before, but now he realised. The scarred ones were the newest ones.

The implications still rendered him speechless for a moment. From the woman – Hawke's – expression, she understood his shock.

"Come on, let's find somewhere a little quieter and I'll...try to explain what I can," she looked briefly angered and frustrated as she ducked her head, but that wasn't what struck Fenris as odd as they turned and headed for the slaves quarters. Something about her sentence seemed out of place, but he couldn't place it.

The babble of the kitchens dimmed somewhat as they entered the galley, but those who hadn't seen the master's bodyguard continued shouting over the sounds of ovens and flames and clanging pans.

Their heavily accented words, irrelevant though they were, triggered the realisation of what was wrong with Hawke's sentence.

'Come on', she'd said. Arcanum had similar colloquialisms, but the simple, everyday phrase was in Common, not Arcanum. Fenris had never uttered a word of Common before in his memory, but just the sight of this woman, a stranger, or perhaps the sound of her voice, and he was speaking fluent Common as though it were his first language, and not realising the difference.

It was in a vague, stunned daze that Fenris followed the spindly woman, even when she led him to the door of a store cupboard. It was only when she twisted the door handle first one way, then the other, twice, that Fenris blinked and forced himself to pay attention to the odd little ritual as Hawke paused, her head tilted as though listening. After a few seconds, she opened the door and ushered him inside to sit on an upturned bucket, leaving the door open a crack as she lit a stub of a candle with a match hidden in a box behind a row of buckets, and set both back on the low shelf laden with cleaning utensils. With the door finally closed properly, both of them huddling on their seats near the meagre flame in order to see, Hawke noticed Fenris' bewildered expression, and only read half of it.

"Sorry about that – it's a little system the slaves set up so that people can snatch a few minutes sleep between jobs." She explained, a tad sheepishly. Seeing his face was still uncomprehendingly blank, she elaborated. "If no one answers, the cupboard's empty. If you get one knock, there's someone in there, but there's room for someone else. Two knocks, and the room's full or the occupants are...occupied." She couldn't help the wry twist of her lips that, for an instant, seemed to belong on another's face.

The last word seemed to snap Fenris out of whatever trance he was in; he blinked, then frowned in bewilderment for a moment. Hawke tilted her head curiously at his apparent confusion.

"Fenris?" She asked carefully, as though wary he would lash out at her for disturbing him.

He finally met her eyes again and spoke slowly, as though still in shock.

"Hawke, I'm speaking Common. I've never spoken a word of Common before today...have I?" Even though his earthy green eyes were guarded, there was a shaky vulnerability in his voice, almost masked by his deliberate, forced tone as he pleaded for her to restore some sense of normality to his already difficult life.

But she was shaking her head, sympathy visible in her eyes now that his own had adjusted to the dim light.

"Actually, Fenris, you've been speaking Common for...quite a while now. When I knew you, you only used Arcanum to swear at somebody," she explained, tempering soothing fact with humour. Doubtless it was odd for her to be explaining things he'd taken for granted, once, but right now she had all the answers he was lacking, and though they terrified him, something was driving him towards his past the way air drives a person to break the surface and breathe.

"How long? How long is 'quite a while'? Tell me. Please," he added, almost as an afterthought that she waved away before chewing on her lip, her eyes darting away to the corners of the store room almost guiltily. She seemed to be struggling with herself, though why that could be escaped him.

After a few impatient seconds, she paused in worrying her lip, before releasing the abused skin and sighing through her nose, as though conceding to an inevitable defeat.

"Seven years or more. That's how long I've known you," she finally muttered, with a wary glance at the door. But Fenris wasn't concerned with possible eavesdroppers. He was staring again, unable – unwilling – to believe that he had spent so long with this woman and remembered none of it.

Desperately, he searched her face, looking for some recognisable feature, some spark of memory to reassure him.

Nothing. Not even the unique compassion in her eyes that made him wish he remembered that, at least.

"Fenris," her voice was soft as she instinctively reached out to take the gauntleted hand that rested limply on his knee. She froze when he drew back, however, even though the action made him feel...ashamed, somehow. Broken. He'd seen others touch, of course, and neither flinched in pain. He knew it was just him; just another thing to alienate him from everyone else.

But instead of retreating again, Hawke instead caught his eyes and left her hand hovering in the empty space between them, palm up, patient.

"I won't hurt you, Fenris. I promise." There was a brutal honesty and an unexpected boldness in her eyes as she said it; the latter utterly alien to most slaves. Yet still he hesitated.

Rather than be disappointed or insulted, however, Hawke just smiled.

"Seven years, along with Maker knows how many injuries, and you think we didn't touch each other in the slightest? The only time I touched you and it hurt was if I was treating an injury you wanted to ignore and were squirming." She grinned at his predictable scowl when he pictured that, though the frown was tempered with mild confusion when he saw her smile. "You got used to contact, Fenris. It just takes time. You trusted me with this, once. Try again...please."

He lowered dubious eyes from her face to her outstretched hand, his own fingers twitching nervously. He didn't have to do this. There was no reason to – he could just get up, walk away and forget all about these surreal minutes and this strange woman who knew more about him than he did. The impulse to do so flooded his legs; they tensed, ready to lift him from his seat and carry him to the door.

Hesitantly, his hand reached out, hovering above hers. He saw the muscles in his arm bunch, trying to pull him back, to prepare him for the pain, then his bare palm brushed against her fingers and settled against them.

The whole limb was quivering, waiting for the discomfort to rush through him, but instead there were just the cold tips of her fingers melding into her warmer palm, then she was slowly turning his hand over and carefully tracing the unmarked skin, consciously avoiding the lines of lyrium there.

Without his permission, his hand jumped as her calloused fingers passed just beside the centre of his palm. He somehow conjured up a retaliating glare when she chuckled, but there was no real heat in it. Though he was slowly relaxing with the oddly soothing sensation, he still expected a jolt of pain; a small betrayal to prove him right.

It never came.

Instead, there was a...a ghost of familiarity. His mind may have been scoured blank, but his body remembered, just the way that his muscles recalled how to wield a blade. The latter he didn't question; he existed to fight and protect his master – it was all he existed to do. But this...the roughness of her skin contrasting with her gentle touch – it shouldn't remind him of anything. Yet it did. There was a stirring in the back of his mind, out of reach. He could feel it, but not place it.

It was utterly maddening.

Without warning, his metal talons closed over her fingers, the sudden cold contact sending a flicker of surprise running up her arm to her spine. Her eyes jumped to his, not expecting the determination there.

"Hawke," he said firmly. He _would_ get his answers from her. "Who am I? Tell me." It was the first order he had ever uttered, and though the novelty thrilled through him, he didn't let it distract him.

At the question, her eyes darted aside again, unaccountably nervous, but the instant his tone changed and the last two words left his mouth, the orbs leapt back, glinting with a defiance that seemed reflexive. For just an instant, Fenris felt that this frail woman, a slave no less, was formidable. The wrinkle of her nose that lifted her lip and bared her teeth in the hint of a snarl spoke of a lost confidence – and independence.

Only Fenris' own stubbornness held him in place, his glare unrelenting. At his look, Hawke seemed to remember her station and, with a frustrated gnaw of her lip, dropped her gaze to glower at the floor, as though hoping to scare a response from it.

This woman was enshrouded in paradox after paradox. A slave, yet bold. She knew him, yet wouldn't divulge who he was readily. Her hands were calloused, but not just from chores – he recognised the signs of weapon use, yet slaves were forbidden from even touching a weapon unless given express permission.

But he shoved his musings aside, and instead shook her lightly, to get her attention. Reluctantly, her eyes rose from the floor, but wouldn't quite meet his. Impatient, Fenris shook her again.

"Hawke," he insisted. But she tugged her hand out of his grip – why did he let her go so easily? – and stood, plunging her face into the darkness surrounding the brave little candle flame so that he couldn't read it. She suddenly seemed far more alien to him than she had just moments ago.

"I'm sorry, Fenris." Her voice was strange; forced into civility. "I can't."

Fenris stared blankly at where he thought her eyes were, momentarily speechless.

"Can't? What do you mean, 'can't'?" He demanded. Her sharp intake of breath was the only indicator of her rapidly fading patience.

"Fenris, you speak Common better than I do at times, so why the meaning of 'can't' is eluding you now, I don't know." She snapped, the retort yanking him from his seat and onto his feet, anger heating his veins. He could see her now, he realised, as his markings started to flare. The scarred ones – the ones Hawke said were new – were burning, but he ignored it, the way he did the low simmer of the older marks. Her face was pale in the eerie light, but not in the least bit intimidated.

This was not a normal slave.

"Don't play games, Hawke. You know what I meant!" He barked, eyeing her swift slicing motion with distaste.

"Keep your voice down," she hissed. "Otherwise the guards will come investigating, and I won't even be able to explain why I can't say anything; because they'll haul me off to be whipped again, or lock me in the dungeon just three days after I got out of that blighted pit!"

He'd been about to snap at her again, to tell her he didn't care if the guards arrived, but his teeth clicked shut with grudging sympathy when she bit out her explanation.

After a tense moment of mutually infuriated glaring, Fenris expulsed a sharp breath of annoyance and nodded stiffly, extinguishing his markings and surrendering them both to the meagre light of the candle once again.

"Fine," he growled in an undertone, "I'll strive to stay as quiet as possible." The bite of sarcasm wasn't lost on her, he noted as she cast him a filthy look that seemed far too familiar to be used by an acquaintance of just a few minutes, and heaved her own impatient sigh.

"Then I'll explain what I can. _What I can_, Fenris," she stressed, as though he'd offered some kind of complaint. He'd considered it, of course, but she couldn't have known that, he reassured himself.

At his terse nod, she looked aside again, as though gathering her thoughts, and started to talk in a rapid, low voice that he had to strain to catch, even in this enclosed space.

"I'm forbidden from revealing your past to you. Breaking that order will result in consequences that will be..._unpleasant_ for everybody, not just me. I was actually forbidden to even speak to you, but when I saw you I couldn't help my reaction, and then you came over and..." here she paused, releasing a bitter laugh that somehow struck him as uncharacteristic. How should he know what was typical of her? He'd known her for all of a quarter hour, for the sake of the Gods!

"I'm weak," she continued, still self-deprecating. "I should never have spoken to you – should have just walked off. You were never meant to know anything about your previous life; that's how Danarius wanted it."

Fenris blinked in surprise. Not only at the anger in her voice, but that she had addressed their master as such. Where was the respect, instilled into every slave from birth for their owners?

"He can't know about this, you realise," Hawke added, almost as an afterthought, though her tone was as serious as it was steady. "Please, promise me you won't tell him anything – that I spoke to you; that you even _saw_ me. You can't tell him that you know I exist; for both our sakes." There was a definite note of desperation there now, Fenris noticed.

Slowly, he nodded.

"I promise, but will you answer something for me in return? Just one thing." Immediately, the shifty look came back to her eye, as though she was searching for a place to hide. Hastily, Fenris continued, to keep her in place as much as to get a reply. "I think I already know the answer, but...it would be good to have confirmation." He waited, tense, not seeming to breathe as she captured her lip again and tugged at it with white teeth.

Finally, she nodded warily.

"I'll answer if I can," she warned, and he nodded, willing to accept the compromise.

"I...did I ever learn how to read? I saw some of Master Danarius' files this morning and realised I could understand them..." he trailed off, but Hawke was already nodding, a fond smile just plucking at the corners of her lips.

"You did. I can't say more than that, but you did."

An odd lightness took hold of his chest, and for a moment Fenris stared down at it, carefully counting his heartbeat and breathing in bewilderment, wondering what strange symptoms had gripped him as the lightness grew hotter and burned, warming his limbs. Both rhythms were steady and strong, but the feelings persisted, and slowly, he indentified them.

Relief. Pride.

Still stunned, he lifted his dark, confused eyes from his chest plate and met Hawke's. She was watching him with such a wistful sorrow, he startled, but then the emotion was gone and he wondered if he'd only imagined it into softening her face.

She sighed and pointlessly brushed down her patched, dusty dress, looking anywhere but his face as she jolted into motion.

"We'd better get going; no doubt we both have jobs to be done," she murmured as she lifted the candle from its low shelf and returned the buckets to their original places. "You go first; I'll leave in a few minutes so we're not seen together. I need a few supplies from here, anyway." Her voice was soft, sorrowful, and for a moment Fenris thought he was going to be stuck in a tiny room with a sobbing woman and absolutely abysmal social skills, and thus no way to comfort her. Irrational panic froze him to the spot, but then she turned and offered him a dry smile, and tilted her head towards the door.

"Go on; the guards won't think it odd if a slave exits a cleaning closet, even if you are Danarius' personal bodyguard," her smirk was only a little bitter this time, and the unwanted nerves in his stomach settled now that the possible domestic crisis was averted.

He gave her an awkward, formal nod before turning towards the door and grasping the handle, listening briefly for nearby footsteps out of habit. Hearing none, he shot a reluctant, curious glance over his shoulder at the woman lit by the flame she held, like one of the Southerner's statues of Andraste, then turned away and forced himself to abandon her to the strict routine of a slave's life.

His footsteps idly traced the way back to the training fields, though instead of working off the anger he'd felt not even a half hour ago, now he fled to the field to be silently comforted by the familiarity of wielding a blade, and the blessed single-mindedness of the forms that drove all other thoughts from his mind.

This morning, he'd been desperate for answers. Now, he feared both his questions, and the answers he knew Hawke must have.

So if he feared them, why did he crave to speak with her again?


	8. Chapter 8

Hello everyone! I'm back after...just over a month, which is pretty good for me, considering the month I've had! Not only did I sign up to do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month - 50,000 words done in the month of November), I was too ill for the first week of it to write anything, so I started on day eight (go me -_-''), and am only just finished recovering fully now!

Oh, I also went to Wales with uni. Nearly forgot about that.

Anyway, the relevance to this chapter is that I wrote it as part of NaNo - I wrote it in the NaNo document, so it goes towards my word count, but then I put it in its own file and fussed with it etc. I hope it's up to standard - my brain's been frazzled lately, I'll be honest. We're back to Hawke for this one, and back to the M-rated themes.

**Trigger** **warning:** ********** There is an attempted rape scene in this chapter, but it is mainly a fight scene, with a few sexual tones to it. I personally do not think it is that explicit, but I wouldn't want anyone to read something they didn't want to/that made them uncomfortable.********** **

For those who want to read the chapter, but not that particular scene, I've put a line break before and after the scene. The scene before and after won't flow smoothly, but you'll get an idea of how the fight went without involving too much detail. I'm sorry if this breaks the immersion for some of you, but I don't want to make any of my readers uncomfortable.

Anyway, with that warning out of the way, I'll let you get on with the chap with the usual messages: any feedback is appreciated, constructive criticism is encouraged, **Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me**, you're all wonderful and thank you for reading. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Hawke waited, staring blindly at the shelves until the door closed and the faint whisper of his footsteps had faded, before releasing the breath that had kept her standing as he left and sinking slowly to the floor, shaking.<p>

Despite herself, she laughed as she rested her head against her knees. Even without his memory; that man still managed to drive her insane with just a few words. It hadn't been an ideal first meeting – certainly, the only similarity it bore to Hawke's imaginings was the exchange of their names, but she hadn't been expecting to simply walk into him in the courtyard. It had startled her, and sent an unexpected jolt of pain through her chest, mingled with the sudden longing that seeing him evoked.

She knew full well she should have moved; stayed inconspicuous and out of sight, and approached him on her own terms, but she'd frozen. Then, when she saw how agitated he looked – made clear to her in his slight frown and tense jaw – she'd been struck by the idiotic urge to help him.

Well, she thought, she'd managed to do that, at least. As well as confuse him even further and quite possibly disturb him.

Anxious, she returned to biting her lip, not quite trusting her legs to support her yet. She was scanning her memory, trying to think if anyone of note had seen them together and might report it to Danarius. They couldn't be seen to be breaking the rules, but if she was going to get them out of the Imperium, then she would have to speak with Fenris and regain his trust.

That was the problem, she realised. She was clinging onto this hope of escaping with him, but she knew it would take a lot of time. How long had it taken Fenris to trust her the first time? Four, five years?

She couldn't spend that long here. She couldn't. Either her sanity wouldn't hold, or she'd eventually anger someone to the point of being killed.

What scared her is that she might welcome either option, if trapped here long enough.

But how could she hope to accomplish an endeavour of five years in...what? Months? A year? How long was she willing to stay here?

The answer was easy; as long as Fenris was still here. But what if there came a point when she started to consider leaving him behind?

No doubt she'd rationalise it if the time came; that she'd bring back reinforcements; they'd come and get him. And she would have done, two and a half months ago. If it had just been Fenris who had been captured, nothing from the darkest regions of the Void could have stopped Hawke from storming the Imperium and getting him back.

But things looked so different from this side of the cage. Hawke couldn't ever imagine coming back here if she left.

It wasn't just the whippings and beatings – which she'd suffered in prison when the guards were bored, or they antagonised her into reacting. Pain she could cope with. It was the constant terror that she'd make too big of a mistake and someone else would suffer for it. Danarius had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't above killing his slaves, and she knew he would willingly administer a punishment on Fenris instead of her if she stepped out of line.

She'd only lived with that constant, heavy fear for two and a half months, and already it had changed her. How would she cope after five months? Ten? A year?

And even without her own problems and fears, what about Fenris himself? His first escape had been, in essence, accidental. He only started running when he'd experienced a life other than that of a slave, and had then had that torn away – had ripped it apart himself. What if he was content here, in the only role he knew? What if he didn't want to leave?

If she trusted him too soon, and tried to convince him before he trusted her...he might turn her in to Danarius. An integral part of her was adamant that Fenris, _her_ Fenris, wouldn't do that. But she had to think of him as a different person now, even if he looked and acted exactly the same. One whose actions she couldn't anticipate. If Fenris saw her as a possible threat to Danarius, without trusting her first, he would kill her with little or no hesitation. She'd seen him kill in cold blood before; for simply being on the wrong side of the battle. Hawke could easily picture him donning that same indifferent mask and snapping _her_ neck after one mistake, though the gruesome image sparked an instinctive denial in her.

But how to get him to trust her? She couldn't do what she did last time; she had no freedom to socialise with him, and she didn't work with him here. The best she could hope to do was snatch minutes of conversation with him in store cupboards and pray no one took notice. How was she supposed to rebuild such a strong bond, in such a short amount of time, with just that?

Then again...she had an advantage here. She knew Fenris, quite possibly better than he knew himself right now. If she could somehow convince him that their bond – their friendship, she amended mentally – had existed, and been so strong, using what she knew of him already...maybe she stood a chance.

But could she do that without breaking more of Danarius' rules? Could she convince Fenris when she wasn't allowed to discuss his past with him?

Bitterly, she realised she would have to. Or at least, she would have to reveal as little as possible, and stress the importance of Danarius never finding out to Fenris. He'd seemed to acknowledge that in their talk – he still had a sense of compassion, despite being Danarius' personal weapon.

With an aching sigh, Hawke slowly clambered to her feet, using the tired shelves for support. With a self-deprecating little laugh, she realised that as soon as he'd seen her, her legs had started trembling as though they were made of nothing more substantial than knotted cotton, and hadn't stopped shaking until he'd closed the door behind him and let her sink to the floor. It was like a (very, very early) scene from one of Isabela's favoured books; the heroine getting weak knees around the hero.

Hawke snorted. If only their situation was as simple as the rest of Isabela's books.

She took a moment to steady her thoughts, trying to remember what she'd been doing before she'd seen Fenris in the courtyard.

She'd been told to polish the main staircase, after mopping one of the ballroom floors. She'd returned the mop to the nearest store cupboard to the ballroom, but she'd had to go out into the courtyard to empty the dirty water out of the bucket she'd been using. She'd put the bucket in a store room – this one, actually, but she'd intended to get the supplies from a store room closer to the staircase. It was as she was heading across the courtyard, back indoors, when she saw Fenris.

Inwardly, Hawke groaned as she reluctantly left the sanctuary of the cupboard and headed back out into the courtyard, simultaneously hoping she didn't see Fenris, yet somehow yearning to catch a glimpse of him.

The gruelling monotony of hard work was enough to drive the thoughts out of her head – or at least fill it with other, dull thoughts that drove her concerns out of her head. It wasn't solace, but it was enough of a distraction to imitate it.

She was the only one working on the staircase, and the thing was huge – seventeen stairs just to reach the first landing, and then it split into a 'T' and continued with two identical, smaller staircases leading into different halls. She had to clean and polish every step, and every inch of the banisters. Her shoulders and back already ached from mopping – and what irritated her was that if she'd been able to maintain her muscle tone during the voyage, she would have found this a lot easier.

It took her six hours to clean the whole thing, single-handedly and with increasingly fatigued muscles. She snatched moments of relaxation when no one was in the hall, but she only had a few seconds in which to stretch and try and work out the knots in her shoulders before someone's footsteps would echo towards her and she'd have to bend over her work again before the approaching footsteps entered the hall and saw she wasn't working.

It was starting to grow dark by the time Hawke deposited her cleaning supplies in a store cupboard and walked out into the courtyard, her back burning, the scars from her lashings stretching and stinging, her feet and legs aching, her hands cramping and her knees bruised from kneeling for so long.

She was slowly shuffling towards the slave quarters, moving carefully as she tried to stretch out her aching muscles, when she saw a guard striding towards her purposefully.

'_Maker, what now?'_ she thought, keeping her head down and pretending she hadn't seen the man, whilst speeding up from a pained shuffle to a limping walk and hoping he wouldn't shout her.

He did.

"You! Girl! Follow me." He even waited for her to stop, look up at him, and reluctantly change course before leading her back the way he came, uttering orders for her to hurry up as he went.

"Yes sir," she muttered, reminded briefly of her days in King Cailan's army where your superiors would bark at you in much the same manner. However her superiors were also quite happy to have a casual drink with you when you were off-duty. Somehow Hawke doubted that was why she'd been summoned by the guard.

The ma led her towards the guard house, where she could hear loud laughter and talking. More than two men, at least. Quite possibly three; maybe more. From the volume, she assumed that the occupants of the station were drunk.

'_Can't these lazy assholes clean up their own spilt ale?'_ Hawke wondered, sighing to herself as the guard opened the door and pushed her inside.

Normally, the shove would have been a warning sign, but here casual abuse was expected, just something else to endure then forget about.

* * *

><p>But it was only when she'd regained her balance and saw the expectant expressions on the faces of the three other guards that something struck her as wrong.<p>

The door closed behind her. There was no sign of any spilt drinks or damaged furniture that she could have been called to attend to.

She heard a step behind her, and she spoke coldly, with more authority than she had since arriving in the Imperium.

"Why am I here?"

One of the soldiers at the table swapped gleeful looks with his shift mates before deliberately knocking over his drink.

"To clean up after us, look. What are you waiting for, Ferelden? The table won't dry itself," he said, watching her with an unmistakeably hungry look in his eye.

Hawke stood motionless, trying to think of a way to talk herself out of the situation without earning any kind of punishment that might be delivered on someone else. Then there was a hand on her back and another in her hair, gripping tightly before shoving her forwards.

Her arms snapped out to catch herself as she collided with the table, the guards sat around it leaning out of the way and lifting their drinks clear with rowdy shouts of amusement.

As she pushed herself away from the wood, ale staining her dress where she'd pressed against the spilt drink, the other guards stood, their drinks and all pretences abandoned.

Hawke quickly whirled, bruised ribs ignored, so that none of them were behind her, surreptitiously casting around for a weapon of opportunity. Their weapons were leaning against the wall by the door, behind the slowly advancing men, and utterly out of reach. Their flagons were too light to do any real damage. A chair was too unwieldy. She didn't dare take her eyes off the men for long enough to look behind her.

She still had her knives hidden in her belt, but she'd rather save them for a surprise attack that had the best chance of succeeding.

She tried to slowly circle around the cramped room, but the four guards merely spread out, blocking the attempt and driving her towards one of the walls.

One of them, the one who had fetched her from the courtyard, stepped out of formation, unusually boldly for an opponent. Then Hawke remembered that she was no longer a feared adversary and expert fighter. She was a lone slave woman, malnourished and weak, surrounded by men who saw her as nothing more than entertainment. Why should they be wary of her?

"I picked a pretty good one, eh?" He asked his friends, turning to grin at them. Hawke used that moment of inattention to lunge forward, striking out at his jaw. His friends shouted warnings, but her punch connected solidly and the guard staggered back, landing against the table looking shocked.

Hawke backed up again, her arms raised warily, spending only a moment on disgust at how weak her strikes had become. Once, she could have knocked out or possibly killed someone with that hit.

"Little Ferelden bitch!" The guard spat, struggling to his feet and rushing her, his friends hanging back to let him get his revenge on the slave that dared to strike an Imperial citizen.

Hawke sidestepped quickly, closing the distance again as the guard stumbled past her. She grabbed the hair on the back of his head and used his own momentum against him, slamming his head into the wall with a resounding crack.

Hawke didn't waste time watching his skull rebound off the wall or his body crumble to the ground; she span to face the remaining three who had shouted in horror as their friend was felled. Now they all lunged forward, and though she stalled one with a sharp knee between his legs and slammed her elbow into another's face, the third took advantage of their failure and grabbed her, slamming her back against the wall before she could recover from striking out at the other two.

He pinned one arm against the wall, his other arm across her throat. Writhing, Hawke lashed out at his eyes, trying to punch her fingers through the socket and into his brain. He jerked back, but her nails still scored livid red lines down his face and across his left eye.

Dimly, as it grew hard to focus and the dim light in the room seemed unnaturally bright, Hawke saw the two she'd struck but not incapacitated rushing in to help restrain her.

No choice now.

Before the man with the bloodied nose could grab her free arm, Hawke grabbed one of the knives from her belt and slipped it between the ribs of the guard pinning her, twisting quickly and withdrawing the blade. She felt the strength draining from the arm at her throat, but used the few full breaths that bought her to try and stabilise herself before shoving the dying man away and darting forward, punching the blade into the neck of the closest guard before he realised what had happened.

She tried to jerk the blade free, but it had lodged in a vertebrae.

Forced to abandon it, Hawke went to draw the second, starting to turn to face the remaining guard only to have a strong arm wrap around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. The arm drove her forward and dragged her to the right, her body slamming back into the wall she'd left.

"You are going to get the beating of your _life_ when I'm done with you," he snarled, his free hand clenching in her hair and cracking her head against the wall.

Lights burst and imploded in her vision as her body fell limp for a moment; held up only by the guard pressing her against the wall.

Groaning, she tried to focus and inject some strength back into her limbs as she felt his hands scrabbling at her clothes.

The hilt of the second dagger was digging uncomfortably against her ribs, half-drawn.

Hazily, she lifted her arm from the elbow, unable to move it further.

Gritting her teeth, she found some mobility in her legs and kicked out backwards, slamming her heel into his shin. She distantly heard him curse, but his grip on her didn't loosen.

She felt a hot breath against her neck, and acted on instinct. She flung her head back, arching her whole body into the motion. Her skull made impact with the guard's nose, and he released her with a yell of pain, staggering away from her.

Still blinking away rose coloured dots in her vision, Hawke fumbled for the blade at her belt and spun around. The guard was clutching his face, hunched over, but his eyes were uncovered and squinting. They opened wide when they saw her move, giving her the perfect target for a blade into the brain.

The body remained upright for a moment, swaying slightly, though its arms had already started to drop. Then the weight of the skull pulled the body forward and it collapsed, narrowly avoiding Hawke as she scrambled out of the way.

* * *

><p>She stood for a moment, half supported by the wall, just staring at the scene. Four guards down, three dead. Mechanically, she retrieved her blades, stowing them away. She then searched the four of them, looking for similar sized blades. Finding one, she turned to the unconscious guard and, with a quick breath, tugged it across his throat and waited for the dull bubbling breath to stop. She rose, planted the bloodied blade in the final guard's eye socket, and staggered to one of the chairs left standing, sinking into it.<p>

The adrenaline still shook her, but rather than feeling proud of fighting them off, a sickening fear had taken root in her gut.

It wasn't that she regretted defending herself – it had never even occurred to her _not _to fight. But if Danarius found out this was her, what would he do to her? What would he do to Fenris, or any other slave he saw?

But she simply hadn't thought about any of that during the fight. The only option that had struck her was to fight them off, kill them if necessary. Murder came easily to her, and the consequences were only now beginning to be realised.

She needed to leave here, before the shift changed.

Slowly, Hawke stood, then remembered to look down at her stained, disordered clothes, checking for blood.

She never had to worry about that before, she noted dimly as she stared at the wet, crimson stain on her torso from when she'd stabbed the guard in the chest. She and the others had spent half of their time painted in blood, even whilst walking about the city. People had given them a wide berth, but they'd never had to hide it before. Usually it meant that they'd cleared out another gang of thieves or slavers; it was something the people were grateful for.

The dress would need to be burned.

Her right elbow had a smear of blood on it, from when she'd struck one of the guards in the face. The hand of the same arm was dripping with crimson from stabbing that man in the neck.

She'd managed to scrounge up a spare dress in her few weeks out of the dungeons; it was back in the slave quarters.

Finally starting to think clearly again, Hawke slipped outside and stuck to the shadows, even though there was no one around to see her. You never knew who might be looking out of a window in this place.

Slowly, painstakingly, she approached the door to the slaves' quarters, but even here she kept her head down and made sure not to be seen up close.

The sleeping room contained nothing more than simple straw pallets, thin blankets and flat pillows to rest on, and small bundles of clothes next to each bed. Hawke whispered a brief sigh of thanks that the room was empty, and crossed to her own pallet. She quickly changed her dress and cleaned her blades on the dry sections of the bloodied one before stowing the blades away and balling up the ruined cloth.

Now all she needed to do was dispose of it.

The braziers were always lit as dusk fell, and the standing ones would be large enough to stuff a bundle of cloth into. They hadn't been lit on her way into the sleeping quarters, so maybe she could go and light them, and burn her dress as she did so.

When she left, the first few torches had already been lit. Hawke spotted the slave lighting them, quickly caught up with him.

"Sabain!" The elf turned at his name, a purposefully dispassionate look on his face, but once the older man realised he was being called by a fellow slave, the facade loosened slightly and he granted her a thin smile.

"Hawke," he greeted her, turning to light the next torch as she drew level with him. He stiffened suddenly. "Get that in the fire before someone sees it," he hissed, his eyes sweeping the courtyard with their characteristic detachment, but taking in more than anyone would guess. "And wipe the blood off your face," he added as Hawke snapped out of her surprise and surreptitiously did what he said, scrubbing the blood away with a clean corner of the dress before stuffing the lot into the flames. Sabain gave it a quick prod with the butt of his torch to make sure it wasn't visible at a simple glance, then walked on calmly, Hawke at his side.

"I-" she started, only to be cut off immediately.

"Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I won't turn you in, Hawke, but don't expect any more than that."

"I won't, Sabain. Thank you," she murmured, taking his grunt of acknowledgement as a dismissal and heading back to the slave quarters, wanting only to lie down and sleep.

She was chasing oblivion for hours before finally finding it.

The next morning, everyone was called to the courtyard. Every slave and guard had assembled by half past nine, all of them silent but swapping curious, worried glances.

Hawke knew exactly why the assembly had been called, but she assumed the same expression as the others and traded concerned glances with her neighbours.

She purposefully didn't look at Fenris, who was standing silently beside his master, just a step behind to show his submission, but within striking range should someone leap to attack the mage.

Someone stood on Danarius' other side, but Hawke couldn't make out their face underneath the deep hood pulled up over their head. They wore robes and wielded a staff, however, so Hawke assumed that this was Danarius' new apprentice, now that Hadriana was dead.

The magister soon drew attention back to himself once everyone had gathered, stepping forward on a podium built into the main steps, much like the one in the Gallows.

Though no one had been speaking, the silence somehow deepened as people ceased moving as well, standing motionless and staring up at their master as he surveyed them. Hawke suppressed a shudder of apprehension when his eyes landed on her and lingered there before thoughtfully drifting away. He wasted no time on elaborate wording or phrases.

"Last night, four off-duty men were killed in the guard house. The murderer is among you; either soldier or slave. They have until noon to step forward and accept the consequences of their actions. The rest of you have the same amount of time to come to a senior member of the guard with information, if you know anything about the killing. If the culprit is not caught by noon, then four of you will be selected at random to die as punishment in return for the lives of the slaughtered men. Dismissed." The stunned silence broke as Danarius turned away and headed back indoors, Fenris shadowing him. The babble rose to a climax when the doors boomed shut behind the magister and people felt free to talk loudly.

The air was choked with questions.

"Did you hear about this?"

"Did anyone see anything?"

"Who do you think did it?"

Hawke met eyes and gave answers mechanically, keeping her innocent, shocked expression in place as she scanned the crowd. Finally, her eyes landed on a familiar head of balding brown hair.

Sabain caught her eye, gave the smallest shake of his head, then went back to watching the people around him panic. Hawke relaxed slightly. He wouldn't say anything.

Now all she had to do was live with the death of four innocent people as a consequence, because stepping forward wasn't an option.

The two and a half hours until noon were tense to say the least. Many people had gained a desperate look on their face, others just looked lost. Some simply went about their normal day, but the set of their mouths was far grimmer than usual.

At half past eleven, Hawke was summoned to Danarius' study.

Though she responded to the messenger with a blank look of confusion, dread weaved its way through her veins. Had Sabain talked? Had someone else seen her?

She maintained her puzzled, worried front all the way to the study, and kept it in her eyes as she knocked and waited to be granted admission.

"You wanted to see me, master?" She asked, dipping into the compulsory bow required of a slave greeting their owner. She was painfully aware of Fenris standing beside the door, silent but vigilant. She'd frozen momentarily upon seeing him, but had recovered quickly. Now she didn't dare look at him in case Danarius noticed anything odd about her behaviour around him. The magister himself was seated at his obsidian-dark desk, lazy veins of lyrium running through it. He looked up as she entered.

"Ah, Champion. Yes, I was wondering if you knew anything about last night's...unfortunate events?"

Hawke glance up briefly at Danarius, her eyes darkened with uncertainty.

"You mean the dead guards? Master," she added hastily, noticing how his expression had started to harden at the perceived lack of respect. To distract him, she started speaking quickly, eager to prove her innocence and end this meeting. "I only know what you told us in the courtyard this morning. I was cleaning the grand staircase for most of the day and into the evening, then I went back to the sleeping quarters. I never noticed anything amiss while I was in the courtyard, though," she elaborated before falling quiet, her eyes lowered as was proper, wary of saying too much. Danarius stared at her, his flat eyes darting about her face as though one individual feature would reveal her lie. Hawke just kept her eyes downcast and didn't fidget, instead staring at the pattern of the fine rug beneath the desk.

"Where did you get that bruise, Champion?" The magister asked softly, smiling blandly at the puzzled frown on her face.

"Bruise...?" She asked slowly, her hand half rising in the air without anywhere to point.

Behind the mask, her heart was pounding. When the thug had slammed her head into the wall last night, it must have left a mark. Slaves weren't privileged enough to own mirrors, so Hawke hadn't noticed the red and purple bruise on her brow. Desperately, she scrambled for a lie that would fit, whilst waiting for Danarius to lift his own hand and point lazily at her forehead.

"Right there, Champion. Now, what could have caused that?" He inquired as Hawke, frowning in feigned confusion and thought, touched her fingertips to her brow. She didn't have to fake the wince as she nudged the bruise with too much pressure, but it bought her enough time to hit on an excuse that might work. Her eyes widened in realisation and she launched into her explanation without preamble.

"I was mopping the West ballroom floor yesterday, before I polished the stairway. I was near the fireplace when I slipped awkwardly. I grabbed onto one of the decorations above the mantelpiece to try and catch my balance, but I couldn't stop myself before I hit my head on the corner of the mantel. I'd forgotten about it until now," she fell quiet, noticing the amused expression on Danarius' face.

Wishing him to the deepest reaches of the Void, she dropped her eyes to the floor again, studying the rug again and hoping that the angry flush was visible enough to be taken for embarrassment.

Hawke didn't trust the calculating look Danarius wore that she glimpsed in her quick glances up, but her eyes unfocussed and her heart stalled when he lifted his head to address the figure behind her.

"Well, pet? Does her tale sound plausible enough to you?"

Hawke was tempted to just continue staring at the floor, or simply squeeze her eyes shut so she could hide in the darkness, but she couldn't.

She'd forgotten Fenris was still in the room, he was so quiet. And he knew her better than anyone, even if he didn't know it himself. Was that why Danarius was asking him?

Hawke's heart thudded with increased pressure against her ribs at the next thought.

Or did he know that they'd spoken yesterday?

Unable to do anything else, Hawke simply had to shove her whirring thoughts aside and act as any other slave would.

She turned to face Fenris expectantly; comfortable in meeting his eyes even though he was the second person in the room that knew she was lying. Fenris couldn't know that she'd killed the guards, but he'd spoken with her in the morning, and had been close enough to know that she hadn't had the bruise then. He was also smart enough to figure out that she must have been between her two jobs when they'd spoken.

The elf looked momentarily surprised at being addressed, but controlled his expression rapidly. He shot Hawke a curious, yet somehow bland glance before looking back to the magister.

"She seems honest enough, master. And from the look of her, I can't imagine she would be capable of killing four well-trained men. She's just a household slave," he said bluntly, without reason to spare her feelings. In a way, Hawke was glad of it. It meant that she was just another slave to him – which is what she desperately needed Danarius to think right now.

He sat there, studying them both calmly. When he spoke, it was with deliberate malice in his tone.

"Yes, she is, isn't she? Such a shame to have fallen so far," his bland smile was designed to hurt her, so Hawke merely tightened her jaw and said nothing, lowering her eyes back to the floor.

"Very well. You are both exempt from the random draw at noon. Dismissed, the pair of you." Both of them bowed with a quiet murmur of 'yes, master,' and walked out into the corridor in silence.

While Fenris turned to close the door behind him, Hawke hurried down the corridor, wanting to put some distance between them. But she heard his soft footsteps bounding after her, and abruptly there was a gauntleted hand gripping her arm, dragging her to a halt.

She snapped her head towards him, mute, surprised, and somehow angry. She had no idea what she wanted to say to him, what she _could_ say to him, and he had just covered for her when, by all rights, he should have turned her in. She was grateful for him protecting her – and she struggled not to read into it any more than she should – but right now she just wanted to get away from him and everybody else and just _think_. But he wasn't letting her go.

He returned her look coolly, but his grip didn't slacken.

"Why did you lie to Master Danarius?" He asked in a fierce undertone. Hawke shook her captured arm once, experimentally, then gave up on escaping. She refused to answer him, though, finding that her confusion had made her irritable and disagreeable.

"Why didn't you turn me in?" She retorted in a hiss, shooting a pointed look at his hand. He didn't pay it any heed, but his eyes slipped away from hers for a moment.

"You know me. I didn't want to cast away the one person who is willing to tell me who I am." He said, brutally honest. Hawke stared at him for a moment, then realised that her resolve to not answer him was wavering.

"So you're willing to let four people die to satisfy your own curiosity?" She asked, trying to put some distance between them, even if it wasn't physical. He just looked at her.

"I am. Aren't you willing to let those same four people die because you didn't want to face your punishment?" He countered. Hawke's jaw clenched. Maker damn the man! It wasn't herself she was concerned about!

But she couldn't tell him that.

"It's different." She ground out instead. Fenris ignored her, leaping to another question, seemingly determined to keep her off-balance, but she could see a glimmer of frustration in his eyes.

"Why does he call you Champion?" He asked curiously, but the pressing demand had yet to leave his voice.

Hawke lifted her chin belligerently.

"Irrelevant." She snapped. She was getting to him; she could see anger coalescing in his eyes. Good. Maybe she could annoy him into leaving her alone for now.

"Why are you exempt from the draw later?" He asked, determined to get at least one straight answer from her. Hawke simply smirked.

"Why are you?" She returned sweetly. His expression darkened in an instant.

"_Venhedis_, Hawke!" He snarled, his patience abruptly snapping. The grip on her arm tightened and doubled as he seized her other arm, whirling to slam her against the wall, his markings flaring silver blue.

Pain lanced its way through her back, but that barely registered with the woman.

She froze, just as he did. Hawke found herself staring into shocked green eyes, slowly widening from their angered slits. Just like before, she found her eyes dropping to his mouth as it softened out of a snarl. But before she could move, he released her as though electricity had jolted his hands away, staring at her in confusion. Hawke looked back, the déjà vu of the moment fracturing at the abrupt change in scene. He should have hesitated and slowly drawn away, not leapt backwards as though burned. As her brain caught up with her suddenly pained heart, she wondered if the same feeling of familiarity had struck him.

"Hawke..." he tried, but the sound of his voice snapped reason back into her head. She pushed away from the wall quickly and hurried off down the hall without looking back. This time, he didn't follow her.


	9. Chapter 9

Hello again! A very quick update this time, since I'm stuck for what to write in NaNo, and this fic is guaranteed to give me a few thousand words each chapter.

It is a bit shorter than usual, but the chapter ended where it needed to. The length wasn't due to the release being so soon after the last; this is just the natural course of the chapter.

There are no warnings needed for this chapter, so no worries there. However FF is screwing up again and not letting me respond to reviews individually, so I'm thanking you all here instead :) A couple of individual responses to specific points, however - RewindedMiracle: You're right - he is no fool. However, he knows having four innocent lives on her hands is a severe punishment for her, so he's not extremely concerned that he can't prove her to be the killer. If she wasn't bothered about people dying for her, then he'd probably push a bit harder to uncover the truth, or simply be a bastard and give her a harsher punishment because he felt like it. mille libri: Thanks for keeping an eye on my punctuation XD I've read back through the last chapter (which I kind of didn't do properly before posting it - bad habit) and I've spotted a few instances where I should correct myself. However, I'm in uni at the minute (not in a lecture - I'm not skipping to go on here, as tempting as it may be sometimes) and don't have the original file on this computer to make the changes. I'll fix them when I get home :)

Thanks again to everyone who reads/reviews/lurks (you know who you are :P), you're amazing. Here's the **Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me**, and enjoy the chapter!

* * *

><p>The random draw took place at noon, as promised, and three slaves and a guard died for her. Hawke made herself watch – every inhabitant of the estate had been assembled once again, but many closed their eyes or looked away when the blade rose above the first neck. But Hawke kept her eyes facing forward, watching the spectacle. She felt that she owed them that respect – she had killed them, they at least deserved the respect of her acknowledgement.<p>

This, knowing that four deaths were caused because of her, was enough punishment. Danarius didn't have to add to it.

When the fourth head had rolled, everyone was dismissed to resume their tasks – for some, it was to clean the blood from the steps where the heads had fallen and bounced. Hawke went back to hers silently, and spent the rest of the day absorbed in her work to drive away the guilt.

Two weeks passed, and Hawke kept quiet. She attended her tasks without question or argument, and she made sure to avoid being seen by any guards after darkness started to fall. She was an exemplary slave – a change that seemed to confuse Danarius. After a few days, he seemed bored when he saw her, as though she no longer provided any entertainment. It was only after nine days, when he saw one guard clearly antagonising her, hoping to get a rise out of the slave, that he realised she hadn't simply submitted to slavery. She didn't retaliate or even speak to the guard, but the deadly looks she shot him – and the vulgar sign she made at his back when the man finally turned away – told the magister what she would be doing to the guard, if given the chance. The patient look of awaiting amusement came back to Danarius' eye when he saw her – a change that Hawke wished hadn't occurred.

Several times, she glimpsed Fenris in the estate, usually shadowing Danarius. When he saw her, she could see a glimmer of shame in his expression, balanced out by frustration and confusion. The few times she saw him when he wasn't on an errand or protecting the magister, she stayed out of sight, or managed to lose him in the labyrinth of corridors and rooms in the manor if he happened to catch sight of her. She knew that one day, he'd see her first, and Maker help anyone who tried to stop him from talking to her then. But for now she tried to stay a step ahead of him.

Hawke didn't know why she kept avoiding him – Maker, she needed to get closer to him to get them out of here, not further away!

There was always that excuse that she didn't know what she could say to him, but what also concerned her was the bone-deep pang that she had felt during their last, tense, disastrous encounter. If she wanted to gain his trust again, she couldn't afford to try and rush things due to her own impatience. What kept her away when she saw him in passing was that the same ache returned – not quite as strong as when he'd grabbed her, when for a moment they were back in the Amell Estate and they were about to meet the inevitable end of three years of such a close relationship, but the pang was still undeniably there. She didn't want to be distracted when she was talking to him – once she knew what she wanted to speak to him about.

In reality, she knew she was scared. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, she was scared of how she'd felt. She was scared at how easy antagonising him had been – and that if she did it again, she couldn't be sure there would be a flash of déjà vu to stop them both from...what? Fighting? Kissing? More?

Not knowing was giving her a headache, as well as heartache. So while she figured her own feelings out, she avoided him.

It was fifteen days after the execution when Hawke was restocking the horses' food baskets – and resisting the urge to steal some of the fresh, crisp apples that was mixed in with the oats and hay – when the simultaneously sharp yet hollow sound of hooves and numerous booted footsteps on the cobbled courtyard reached her through the open stable door.

Curious, she walked to the door – standing at the side of a large, docile bay mare who was tethered to the stable, waiting for the farrier to arrive. Hawke murmured to the animal, snagging a currying comb left lying on an upturned bucket near the horse and starting to brush her distractedly as she watched the new arrivals over the mare's back.

Four tall, glossy black horses were pulling to a stop, their harnesses decorated as elaborately as the grand, intricately worked carriage they drew. The carriage was practically surrounded by guards, all bearing the crest of one of the other magisters in the city. Danarius frequently had guests, but none of them had ever warranted such a large guard.

One of the stewards scuttled towards the carriage, not wanting to keep their guests waiting.

Taking the initiative, Hawke joined three other stable hands running over to see to the horses. The steward, looking rather frazzled as he approached the carriage, barked a few short orders at them as they all converged on the carriage.

"Stable the horses; have them ready to make the return journey in a few hours. This is one visitor we cannot afford to disappoint!" He hissed at them, before picking up the pace to reach the carriage door before the slaves.

Hawke stored that snippet of information away for analysis later, and went to tend the nearest horse. The black mare snorted and shook her mane impatiently, glaring down at Hawke critically as she stamped her imperious hooves.

Stifling a chuckle, Hawke held the eye contact easily and reached up boldly to stroke the mare's strong neck, administering soothing pats that the animal soon responded to, dropping her head and nudging Hawke, trying to lean over her holster to lip at Hawke's free hand.

"Can smell the food, can you? Sorry sweetheart, you're going to have to wait until we're in the stables." The woman murmured, patting the mare's neck again whilst glancing down the horse's body to the carriage door as the two occupants exited.

One was a magister; on the older side of middle age with greying brown hair and tired eyes. The second passenger was talking, still in the carriage as he – his voice was definitely male, and young – waited for the older mage to clear the steps.

Hawke frowned, absently scratching the mare's broad nose when she butted the woman in the chest, demanding the return of Hawke's wandering attention. The voice had sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it.

Finally, the aging magister stepped away from the steps and his companion exited, far swifter than his tutor.

Feynriel took a few steps away from the carriage and stretched as the steward closed the door behind him. The young mage looked around the courtyard with mild interest, his eyes skimming past Hawke, then leaping back curiously. They left, then returned again with something close to shock. The boy turned pale.

Hawke could sympathise. For several tense seconds, the two stared at each other, motionless, then Feynriel's tutor turned and clapped the boy on the shoulder, steering him towards the estate's doors and utterly oblivious to his student's stunned expression and the platoon of soldiers marching around them.

Hawke caught the steward turning her way, and quickly redirected her attention to the mare as the carriage driver directed the horses into the giant stables.

Hawke's thoughts wouldn't lie still as she unhitched the mare – Alcippe, the driver called her. According to the talkative old man, it meant 'mighty mare', which Hawke thought was pretty appropriate.

Absently, Hawke led Alcippe into a vacant stable and removed her fancy tack, brushing the dark coat as the mare greedily tucked into the food Hawke had provided for her.

Even though she knew Feynriel had reached Tevinter, Hawke had never imagined seeing him here. In truth, she'd forgotten about the boy – there hadn't been any reason for her to think of him in the past three months, after all. And even if she had, Minrathous was a huge metropolis. What were the chances of her meeting him here, when she never left the estate?

Apparently, quite high.

He'd looked so shocked when he saw her, she thought. Hopefully the magister's hadn't leeched the humanity out of him yet.

But what difference did it make, really? Feynriel was a Somniari, and was practically revered in Tevinter for it, if the guard he had was any indication. He wouldn't have anything to do with a simple slave woman – another magister's slave, at that.

Yet something was niggling at her. Feynriel was the only link she had to Kirkwall, even though he hadn't lived there for three years now. And that girl, Orlanna had said Feynriel had saved her from within a dream, so if she was to be believed, Feynriel had some knowledge of what was happening in Kirkwall.

Berating herself silently for being foolish, Hawke slipped out of the stable after settling Alcippe for the few hours she would be here and headed indoors, walking slowly towards the large reception room Danarius used when entertaining guests.

She was a corridor away when she heard the large doors being opened and a lone pair of footsteps echoing out.

Several started to follow, but Feynriel's voice brought them to a halt.

"No, I don't require a guard. Return to your posts."

Hawke could hear the uncertain silence as the guards tried to think of a way to overturn a direct order.

"But Lord, we are obligated to protect-"

"I do not require protection, Captain. Return to your posts." Feynriel's voice had taken on an odd quality, and the guards didn't respond.

Cautiously, Hawke peered around the corner. The guards eyes were glazed and they shuffled obediently back to guarding the door. Feynriel turned away from them, his irises returning to hazel from an unearthly light. He blinked once, then focussed on Hawke as she stepped out from behind the wall.

"S-Serah Hawke?" He asked, as though sure it was someone else.

She laughed, though made sure to keep her voice lowered in case Danarius or Feynriel's tutor was listening.

"It's been a long time since anybody called me that, Feynriel. But yes, it's me. I got into a bit of trouble of my own, for once," she elaborated, pre-empting some of his questions. The boy gaped at her. Hawke sighed and tilted her head back down the corridor.

"Walk with me; you can ask your questions then – just don't call me 'Serah'. I don't hold that title any more. And if anyone sees us, look as though you'd ordered me to lead you somewhere. I don't like holding conversations this close to Danarius," she said, with a distasteful glance at the closed doors and dazed guards.

She waited for the young mage to approach her before turning down the hall and walking at a set, purposeful pace.

"What happened? I saw Ser- I mean Fenris with Magister Danarius when we entered, but he didn't recognise me at all. We came here to see the magister's famed lyrium warrior, but I never thought for a second it would be..." Feynriel trailed off, shaking his head in bewilderment. Hawke sighed through her nose, running a hand through her hair as she thought before answering.

"Fenris used to be Danarius' slave. It's the reason he has those lyrium markings – Danarius turned him into a lyrium warrior, and erased all of his memories in the process. After Fenris escaped, Danarius spent years trying to recapture him. Three years ago, Fenris discovered he had a sister. He tried to arrange a meeting with her, and finally succeeded about three months ago. But his sister betrayed him – she led Danarius right to him. We thought we'd killed him in that fight, but later that evening Danarius just turned up at Fenris' home with a whole platoon of Tevinter slavers. We fought, but we didn't have our weapons to hand and we were on our own. Numbers eventually wore us down. When we came to after being knocked unconscious, we were on a ship bound for Tevinter. Danarius erased Fenris' memory again and made me, the 'famous Champion of Kirkwall', into a common household slave." Just retelling the brief version made her feel exhausted. Feynriel was staring at her, horrified. It was only through Hawke, Fenris and the others' intervention that Feynriel had escaped a similar fate.

"I knew Tevinter dealt heavily in the slave trade – Magister Cato even has them, though he is one of the more...reasonable magisters. But this...how is this possible? I never thought anyone would be able to best you; either of you." He said in a tone akin to wonder. Hawke shot him a wary glance, hoping that the magister's greed hadn't affected Feynriel to the point where he started admiring Danarius for capturing the two of them.

"We got complacent," Hawke replied bluntly. It was the truth, if a slightly unreasonable one.

Feynriel fell quiet for several moments, staring at the ground in thought as they walked. Hawke watched as his frown slowly eased, as though a revelation was gradually dawning on him.

"I could fix this," he murmured, his eyes widening. Hawke stared at him, confused. Fix what?

He spun to face her quickly, animated with energy and looking at her curiously when she didn't share his inexplicable enthusiasm.

"Don't you see, Hawke? I can just tell Magister Danarius to free the two of you. He wouldn't dare oppose me!" He babbled excitedly, thrilled with his plan, and the opportunity to return the favour of his saviours.

Hawke stopped, struck motionless for a moment by the idea. Could it truly be that simple? Did Feynriel have that kind of influence, already?

They could go home.

She was almost swept up by his excitement – almost.

Then reality sunk in and her would-be euphoria died. She shook her head tiredly, feeling more exhausted than ever.

"Feynriel, it wouldn't work. No, listen to me," she said sharply, when he showed every sign of contradicting her. Hawke glanced around cautiously, but no one was nearby. She'd led them to one of the libraries, a small one with just a single little table and two chairs. She ushered the mage inside and closed the door before continuing, her voice quiet but intent. "Danarius has spent the past seven, maybe eight years searching for Fenris. He is not going to let go of him again for anything, Feynriel. Not even you threatening to boil his brain inside his own skull will make Danarius give him up. And even if he would, Fenris may not want to leave. This is all he's ever known. Even if he _did_ want to leave; there is no reason for him to return to Kirkwall. He doesn't remember that it was his home for so long, or that his friends are there."

Feynriel had closed his mouth, but there was a stubborn set to it.

"You don't know what I can do, Hawke. I can make him think it's _his_ idea to free you both. And if he knows how to restore Fenris' memory, I can make him do that, too. Creators, I could probably make him pay for your fare back to Kirkwall if I wanted to." He said mulishly, clinging to his idea like a stubborn child. Hawke clenched her jaw. Stupid, idealistic boy.

"And what then?" She snapped suddenly. "You free us, Fenris remembers everything, we go back to Kirkwall, everyone's happy. Then Danarius comes to his senses, sends every assassin he can afford to kill you in revenge, and launches another attempt to recapture us both! How are we supposed to live, even free, with that wolf at our backs?" She stopped dead, surprised by her own word choice. Feynriel looked thoroughly chastised and slightly upset at her outburst, but she gave a helpless laugh that made him cast a quizzical look at her.

"What?" He asked when she didn't explain her odd bout of humour.

"It's just, those are the exact words Fenris used to describe Danarius, when I asked him if he would ever stop waiting for Danarius to turn up and catch him. I didn't understand him them – I thought he was just being paranoid, albeit with fair cause. But I get it now. I get it perfectly," she whispered bitterly, staring hopelessly out of the small window at the heaving city beyond the estate's walls.

She caught Feynriel's solemn look, and sat up straighter with a weary sigh.

"Just leave it, Feynriel. I'm planning on getting us out. I just...I don't know how or when yet. But I need time, first. I need Fenris to trust me again." She said, meeting his sorrowful hazel eyes with her own ones.

Hawke thought she caught the briefest glimmer of defiance in his crafty gaze, but then his eyes lowered and he nodded, looking utterly miserable.

Somehow, she felt sympathy for him, despite their situation. She reached out to take his hand, offering him a brave smile when he looked up at her, bemused.

"Thank you, Feynriel. That you care is enough for me. We'll manage somehow," she smiled when he did and squeezed his fingers back.

Abruptly, his eyes glazed over, and he stared out into middle distance. Concerned, Hawke gripped his hand harder.

"Feynriel?" She asked. His free hand rose, silently requesting quiet.

Reassured that he was alright, Hawke waited, nervous, for several seconds before his eyes cleared and he refocused.

"My tutor is waiting for me, along with Magister Danarius. They were discussing next month's masquerade and didn't want to tell me too many of the details – it's to celebrate me becoming a fully-fledged magister." He couldn't hide his fleeting, proud smile at his achievement. Hawke managed a weak echo of it. "Apparently it's going to be the biggest celebration in two ages, because they're also celebrating what the magisters are calling the 'Reditum Somniari'; or the 'return of the Somniari'. It sounds like a child's tale, if you ask me, but the Archon himself declared it, so I can't complain. All the nobles in the city will be attending. I'd like it if you could be there, though. You're the reason I'm here, after all," he said honestly. Hawke managed a more genuine smile this time, but she was already shaking her head.

"Feynriel, that's not my choice. Danarius will be going, and Fenris to protect him, but I can't see him bringing me as well. Why would he?" She asked, meaning it to be a rhetorical question. Feynriel answered her, however.

"You were the Champion of Kirkwall, right? Mother told me in her letters," Hawke smiled, a small flush filling her thin face. She didn't expect to be such a key figure in Arianni's small family life. "Well, the magisters are all bringing...well, exhibits," his keen smile died rapidly as he realised what he was saying. Hawke waved at him to continue, however. Her skin had become as thick as a bronto's in the past few months. "Danarius will have his lyrium warrior – I mean Fenris," he corrected swiftly. "But before I left, he hinted that he may have more than one 'prize' to show off. I'm guessing the other is you, even if all he does is gloat." The boy stopped, looking gloomy and slightly ashamed that he'd brought the matter up at all. But Hawke smiled. It would be a nice change of scenery, if absolutely nothing else. And they would be leaving the estate, both her and Fenris...

"It was next month, right?" She asked; her eyes vague as she started to plan. Feynriel nodded eagerly.

"Yes, on the thirtieth of Parvulis, going into the first of Frumentum. There's some sort of symbolism in the transition of one day to the next somewhere, I wasn't really listening when Magister Cato started rambling about it." He said. Hawke smiled fully, genuinely for the first time in weeks.

"Then I guess I will see you there, Lord Somniari," she said grandly, sweeping him a bow that belonged in an Orlesian court to make him laugh.

"But speaking of your tutor, he's waiting for you. Go on – I'm keeping you." She said, ushering him towards the door. Feynriel jumped – he'd evidently forgotten about Magister Cato's message, projected through the Fade from one who had studied the dreamwalker's arts extensively for decades to a true Somniari.

"Right. I...I guess I will see you at the masquerade. Hawke..." he trailed off, abruptly looking lost. "I'm sorry. Really." His compassion brought a sad smile to her face.

"Don't worry about me, Feynriel. Now go on – and don't mention me, or Fenris, to _anyone_. Not even about meeting us in Kirkwall. Understand?" She demanded. Feynriel nodded, the seriousness of his silence etched into his face until she smiled. "Good. I'll see you on the thirtieth. Say hello to Orlanna for me," she added on impulse. Feynriel flushed, but gave her a shy smile as he opened the door, hurrying out of sight. Hawke relaxed as his footsteps faded and looked out of the window once more.

In a month, the two of them would be brought out of the estate – along with a large number of guards, and the magister himself. They would be out in the streets, and then in a strange estate.

On the way there, it might be too difficult, but on the way back, in the early hours…

A small smile dared to lighten Hawke's face, though it never quite reached her eyes.

She had a month to gain Fenris' trust and plan some sort of escape. After that masquerade, when the magister's were drunk on their own brilliance, they would flee Minrathous.

And Hawke was going to make sure there was no Danarius to hunt them down afterwards.

She'd needed this, she realised. She'd needed some sort of definite goal to work towards, instead of some transient 'I'll make him trust me again, then we can run'.

She always had worked better under pressure.

She returned to work, and was there to hitch Alcippe back into her harness before Feynriel and Cato left. She shot the young half-elf a quick smile when he glanced over at her, before patting Alcippe's neck one last time and backing away, returning to her ordinary work like the other stable hands.

It was only as evening was setting in, and Hawke was heading back to the slave's sleeping quarters through the corridors instead of taking a short cut through the courtyard, when a shadow detached itself from an unlit alcove and seized hold of her arm.

Hawke tensed, her hands clenching as she prepared to fight, when she turned and looked at the figure that was rapidly steering her towards an empty leisure room.

Fenris.

He spared her a glance, but remained silent as they approached the room. Still, Hawke relaxed and allowed herself to be towed inside, although that sharp pang that was almost like hunger had returned, contorting her insides and making her heart beat harder.

It was only after he had closed – and locked, Hawke noticed – the door that he actually spoke, his face grave yet determined, turning to where she stood at the far side of the small reading room, lit only by the dim torchlight from outside.

"We need to talk."


	10. Chapter 10

Hello once again! We're flying through this fic now, aren't we? You guys are all probably thanking NaNoWriMo for making me write these chapters faster. Personally, I'm cursing it to the Void, to use a Dragon Age term :P But I am enjoying the pace at which the story is unravelling - I just dislike my loss of the lazy life haha.

Anyway, it's another short chapter, unfortunately :( But this is across the span of a single, albeit important, conversation, and I think we'll be back to nice, long, complicated chapters with the next one. Well, if Hawke, Fenris and co. behave themselves and stick to the (very loose) script in my head. They're not very good at doing that..._but_ what they substitute it with is usually better, so I'll go with it haha.

I was looking back at the previous chapter, where I set the 'one month' deadline, but considering all the things I have planned for the fic, I may have to extend that to maybe four or five months. I'll leave it for now, but just so you know, that may be subject to change if I realise in later chapters that I can't fit everything that's going to happen into a month XD

Once again, I can't respond to individual reviews, but I read them all, so thank you, everyone! And thank you to the readers/lurkers as well as the reviewers; everything is appreciated.

I will leave you with the **Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me**, and chapter ten. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Looking at him; his ready stance, the way he'd purposefully positioned himself in front of the door, Hawke realised that Fenris was subtly trying to intimidate her into giving him straight answers, even before asking any questions.<p>

Bless him. He used to know better.

With a hint of a smirk she couldn't help, Hawke leaned back against the wall beside a large map of known Thedas, her weight on one leg, arms folded.

"Well, seeing as you've locked the door, and I don't fancy my chances of getting past you in _this_ condition, I'll talk. I've got nothing better to do anyway, other than...I don't know, eating? Sleeping? I've only had one portion of food today, and very little sleep, but you go right ahead, Fenris." She said airily, though with an undercurrent of genuine irritation. The latter was directed at herself, however, at being caught. She knew he'd catch her eventually, but it still irked her that she'd had no warning.

It wasn't that she was complacent anymore. She was just exhausted, and distracted.

From the small cracks in the serious mask he wore, she'd annoyed him. Good – hopefully he would get pulled into arguing with her and forget his original point.

"Don't turn this on me, Hawke. I've tried to speak with you before, but you avoided me. Why?" Or maybe he wouldn't be distracted. His demanding tone brooked no argument, so she didn't argue. She returned to diversions instead.

"I've been busy," she answered, honestly enough. She _had_ been busy. Just not so much so that she couldn't stop to talk when he saw her in the hallway.

He didn't fall for it.

"You _ran_ away from me!" He growled, much to her indignation.

"I didn't _run_! And I've had to work – I've had a lot to do lately," she protested, pushing away from the wall as she unconsciously fell deeper into the exchange. After all, she'd walked. Quickly, but it was still walking, not running.

"So much so that you couldn't stop and talk for two minutes?" He asked scornfully.

"Well, unlike _some_ people, I've had actual work to do, not just following some pompous bastard around all day-" she stopped abruptly when he took several swift steps towards her, his jaw tight, one hand half-lifted as though to cut across her words physically. They both halted, painfully aware of what had happened the last time they'd lost their tempers.

Slowly, Hawke let out her breath, closing her eyes and searching for calm. Her heart was still under the impression she was running for her life, but she managed to settle some kind of temporary composure around her like a shawl. She gradually reclined back against the wall, her arms once again crossed, but her shoulders hunched protectively in a way they hadn't when she was baiting him.

"What was it you wanted, Fenris?" She asked quietly, her eyes gazing at his reflection in the dark window. She watched him relax, though his brow still seemed furrowed and his voice was slightly strained.

"I just wanted to talk again, then when I didn't get to speak to you I wanted to find out why you ran from me." He replied as softly as she had. He was looking down, examining the carpet apparently as he scuffed his feet across the floor. He was quiet for a few moments, then his eyes lifted back to meet hers in the window again.

"Were we always like this?" He asked. Frowning slightly, she turned to meet his eye directly, her head tilted quizzically. He gestured at the two of them, then behind him vaguely to indicate the past. "This. Arguing all the time. It just feels so...easy to fall into. Not familiar, exactly, but when you speak to me, the retorts are just there. It's like a well-practiced form that I can do without thinking. I-" He stopped, then waved dismissively with an impatient sigh. "I probably sound ridiculous." He muttered, breathing an Arcanum curse under his breath as he stared around at the top of the bookcases. While he wasn't looking Hawke smiled.

"Actually, we got on very well. We certainly had our disagreements, mainly over the mages, but overall...we were very close." She paused for a moment, wondering if he'd read into that and half-hoping he would. "But you _did_ bicker quite frequently with some of our other friends. You always were quick on the come-backs, if I recall. Maybe that's why it comes so easily to you now."

His head had tilted to the side in confusion.

"Friends?" He asked curiously.

For a moment Hawke wondered why the concept was odd to him – even she had made some acquaintances that, in the absence of true companions, she'd term friends – but then she remembered the first time she'd spoken with him after he'd lost his memory, and the way the kitchen staff had gone quiet and given him a wide berth. By being Danarius' fearsome bodyguard, he was estranged from the other slaves. By being a slave, he was isolated from the guards and other free staff of the household.

Quite simply, he was the loneliest person in the estate.

'_Oh, Fenris...'_ Her heart tightened with sympathy, but knowing he wouldn't appreciate it, she quickly disguised the emotion as well as she could with a casual smile.

"Yes. You had quite a few, in fact. If I recall, you men had a weekly Diamondback session at your place. Aveline wasn't too happy, but-"

"Wait. 'My place'? I had my own home?" He asked, looking utterly bewildered now. Silently, Hawke cursed. Idiot, running away with her mouth!

Oh, to the Void with it.

"Yes, you did. Well, it wasn't technically, legally yours, but no one challenged your ownership, really, and Aveline – she was Guard Captain – kept the patrols away from your home and diverted the questions about it, so you stayed there for years without any problems."

He stared at her, seemingly unable to comprehend owning something, especially something as large and as influential as a home – even if it wasn't proven by a slip of paper.

Hawke wondered what his reaction would be if he knew he'd illegally owned a mansion, and not just a house.

"But...where was this? It couldn't have been Minrathous, surely." He sounded lost, his eyes completely unshielded as he looked at her, pleading for some sort of sense to be returned to his life.

Hawke bit her lip. Should she tell him?

'_He's already figured out it wasn't Minrathous. May as well tell him _where_ he was living for so long,'_ she thought decisively, releasing her lip. For a moment, she thought his eyes had been just a fraction too low to be meeting hers, but then his gaze was firmly locked on hers again, and she dismissed it as an illusion of the low light.

"Kirkwall," she breathed, feeling a lonely pang as the name left her. "We lived in Kirkwall."

Rather than look understanding, Fenris only became more incredulous.

"Kirkwall? I've never even heard of that place before," he snapped in agitation, starting to pace.

Suppressing an impatient sigh, Hawke cast around the room, then spotted the map. Quickly, she turned to it and scanned the northern coast of the Waking Sea, making a small noise of triumph when she spotted the tiny label 'Kirkwall'.

She waved Fenris over when he asked her what she'd seen, and heard his near-silent approach.

He glanced at the map, then hastily redirected his gaze at the ceiling.

Hawke looked at him, amused.

"The map isn't on the ceiling, Fenris." She chastised gently, however he shook his head stubbornly.

"Slaves aren't allowed to read, Hawke," he admonished in return. He jumped several inches and looked down so quickly Hawke thought he'd snap his own neck when her hand touched his arm, avoiding armour and markings alike to brush his skin. Her grin was both irritating yet infectious, when he saw it. He stubbornly kept a disapproving frown on his face, however.

"Now that I have your attention, can I remind you of two things? One is that a) you can read, and b) I'm breaking a lot of rules to tell you this. Now if you care more about rules than finding out where you lived for seven years, then that's fine by me." She said pointedly. He glowered at her, knowing he wouldn't turn down her challenge. She just smiled at him, silently acknowledging that she knew he wouldn't either.

Damnable woman.

But after casting her a long-suffering look, Fenris hesitantly turned to the map, following her slender finger to the little black dot on the map, and the small, dark brown print beside it.

"Kirkwall," he murmured, testing the word in his mouth for familiarity. There was no sudden bolt of recognition or understanding, or even of the name being right, but the word left him easily, as though it had passed his lips many times before. It was an odd sensation.

He was aware of Hawke's eyes on him, and out of the corner of his own he could see her trying to stifle the hope that he would find the name familiar.

Somehow feeling inexplicably guilty, he slowly shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Hawke. I don't remember a thing. There's nothing but a...an ease of saying the word, if that even makes any sense."

He thought he heard a soft sigh, but when he glanced sideways at her, there was no obvious disappointment in her face.

But...

From behind his screen of white hair, Fenris studied her expression closer. There was the smallest hint of tension around her eyes, and though her mouth didn't seem taut, it wasn't fully relaxed, even after she'd murmured some platitude about not needing to apologise and went back to staring at the map.

He shouldn't have even noticed these things...but once he'd seen them, he realised there were other, tiny details he would never have seen before. The tension running along her shoulders, the way she had unconsciously turned towards his side, just fractionally.

Fenris had no idea what to make of these observations – he was half-inclined to believe that they were nothing more than the product of a near-sleepless night and long-term aggravation caused by the very woman he was studying.

Hawke shifted slightly, and Fenris hastily redirected his gaze to the map, keen not to be caught staring. He needn't have worried, however. Hawke was still staring at the small label of her home, though her wistful eyes were vacant with memory. The tip of her finger still rested just below the name, as though that fake proximity could take her back to the place. For a moment, it was her that looked lost.

"Hawke?" He asked softly, carefully – as though not wanting to break her reverie. She started slightly, turning to him quickly with eyes wide with a lack of comprehension. She'd not even heard what he'd said, just his voice.

He shot a slow, deliberate look at the map, to prompt her into answering instead of clamming up and running away again. Sometimes, when he was talking to her he felt like he was trying to skirt around a large, sleeping dragon in a small room without waking it.

"Are you alright?" He asked when her face remained blank and uncomprehending.

She made a small, near-silent 'oh' of understanding, blinking and looking away with a dismissive shake of her head.

"It's nothing, I just-" She stumbled over her words, before expelling them again, her hands half lifting from her sides only to slap powerlessly back to them in an aimless gesture. "Homesick," she admitted, finally looking back into his face with an attempt at a smile, "I'm just very, very homesick."

Fenris' head tilted slightly, his brow puckering slightly. In mild confusion, this time, not anger or frustration.

"Yet you've never tried to leave," he stated in a murmur, the faint note of wondering to his voice turning the fact into a question.

She stared at him, her lips parted as though she were about to speak – why did he keep looking at her mouth? – a frown of consternation on her face as she stopped her impulsive response and scrabbled mentally to find another.

"What makes you think I've never tried to leave?" She settled on finally, shooting a quick glance to his eyes before her gaze veered away from him completely – dodging the question, and knowing she was doing so badly, he knew.

"Any slave that attempts to escape is publically flogged, and every other slave is assembled to watch. It happened about a week after my memories began – you must still have been in the dungeons, or you would know. Apparently it was a new slave, but he didn't get over the gates in time and the guards caught him. He got thirty lashes, if I recall. Since that is the only time in the past three months that a slave was punished for trying to escape, I assume you haven't tried, otherwise you would have been lashed, or you would no longer be here." He countered easily, somehow absurdly confident that he was right.

She was staring at him again, trying to argue if the sudden, terminated quirks of her lips were anything to go by. Finally she shot him a grudging look of respect and gave in.

"Fine, you're right. I've not tried to escape since you lost your memory," she answered honestly, hoping that would sate his curiosity. He, however, picked up on what she hadn't said.

"But you did before?" He said quickly. He could almost see the curses she was directing at him mentally behind her eyes.

"I- look, Fenris, I can't talk about this, okay? I'm not allowed," she protested, taking a step back from him and looking towards the door. He recognised the signs of an impending flight.

On impulse, he seized the hand that had rose to push his words away, trapping her in place and closing the gap between them again.

"But you did try to escape?" He pressed, trying to catch her eye as she looked, torn, between the door and his hand holding hers, almost against his chest.

"I- no, Fenris, I'm not _allowed_-" she tried to pull away without any real force; he held firm, finally capturing her eyes with his as she shot a distracted, almost panicked look at his face.

"Please," he murmured, taking another step so that their bodies almost touched. His proximity settled her decision, however, and she put her free hand against his breast plate, pushing him away with one hand whilst jerking the captured one free in a sudden, almost violent movement.

"Just _leave it_, Fenris, please!" She nearly shouted, backing several steps away from him. The distance broke his intense determination to get an answer, and left him staring across the few-feet gulf between them.

He realised that Hawke's breath was coming quickly, even though pushing him away couldn't have exerted her much. She was gazing at him with such torn eyes that he couldn't speak, only now realising that, in his fervour, he'd scared her.

"Fenris, don't do this. Just don't. Please." It was that dry, hoarse whisper that stayed with him as she turned; unlocked the door and vanished from sight, her footsteps hurrying down the hall.

'_Don't. Please.'_

Why did those words sound so familiar?


	11. Chapter 11

Hey everyone! Sorry for the wait (again). Since my excuses are about as constant as my being late, this chapter's include uni assignments being due and Harry Potter plot dragons. They're more insistant than bunnies, and aren't above biting if ignored...

I'll warn you now, this chapter hasn't been proof-read (what's new?) and was completed over several weeks, so if the flow is off, or you notice any typos, please don't hesitate to tell me so I can fix it. As ever, I hope you enjoy the chapter, especially considering the trouble it gave me at several points!

**Disclaimer:** As ever, Bioware owns all. I just borrow characters for a while and inflict casual torture when the mood takes me.

* * *

><p>After their almost-argument, Fenris didn't expect to see Hawke for another few days, if not weeks. He was surprised, however, when she sought him out the next day, well after hours and lingering in the corridor outside Danarius' quarters.<p>

It was a testament to her ability to avoid detection that she had both been able to dodge the patrolling guards and that Fenris was utterly unaware of her presence as he escorted Danarius into his rooms to perform his usual check for concealed enemies or other threats. After finally being dismissed, Fenris was closing the large, ornate doors leading into the magister's personal wing when he heard his name being whispered.

He whirled to face the sound, one hand clutching the hilt of the great sword on his back, only relaxing when he recognised Hawke, hiding in an alcove containing a one-of-a-kind vase from a renowned Antivan potter.

Her hands were raised, to show she was unarmed. The briefest flicker of surprise brushed through Fenris' mind, only half-acknowledged, before he shook the impression away. Of course she was unarmed. She was a household slave. They weren't permitted to carry weapons.

His tone was slightly sharp, both with annoyance at being surprised, and with the frustration at the vague sensations that frequently crept up on him when he was with her.

"It's after hours, Hawke. You're not supposed to be up this late unless acting under specific orders from Master Danarius," he growled, but he found himself instinctively keeping his voice low to avoid attracting the attention of the guards.

A flutter of irritation crossed Hawke's thin features.

"I'm aware, Fenris. I didn't just decide to take a midnight walk on a whim, you know. I came to find you," she hissed.

He frowned, taking a few slow steps towards her.

"Why would you risk a punishment to find me now, when for the past two weeks you've avoided me like a dwarf avoids a razor?" He asked suspiciously, and with just the barest hint of bitterness. Rather than let herself be swayed by sympathy – and the inexplicable urge to laugh as she recalled Fenris' initial reaction to Varric's lack of a beard – Hawke just stared at him.

"Are you going to report me?" She demanded. They both held each other's gaze for several seconds, jaws tight, before Fenris snorted softly in irritation and shook his head.

"No," he ground out reluctantly, displeased with succumbing first. Hawke nodded briefly, relaxing somewhat.

"I wanted to apologise, for yesterday. I panicked and acted unfairly. I'm sorry," she answered in turn, her lowered eyes lifting nervously to his. Fenris expected her gaze to dart away again, but instead she held his, yet still managed to look vulnerable enough to twist his sympathy.

"Apology accepted," he replied gruffly, shrugging and feeling distinctly wrong-footed. To wrest back some sensation of control, he gestured to the currently empty corridor. "This isn't the best place to speak. We should find somewhere more private. I don't trust the guards to keep a slave's secret," he murmured, his head tilted as though listening, alert to the tell-tale whisper of apprentice mages robes or the dull clanking of armour. He heard none, but the guard patrolling the wing would return to the corridor in a matter of minutes.

Hawke gave an uneasy shift, huddling in on herself slightly – that odd movement that made Fenris wonder if she was cold.

"I don't, either. The slave's quarters aren't patrolled – the guards are just on the door. Come on, there's another way in." She straightened, turning on her heel and walking, as though expecting him to follow without question.

He was half-surprised to find that he did. It felt completely natural to fall into step just behind and to her right, like he'd often accompanied her in such a fashion. Maybe he had, Fenris realised. According to Hawke, he'd known her for seven years. But in what capacity?

Doubt suddenly scraped against the walls of his hollow stomach. The position was that of a slave – always walking behind the master, typically to the side if the slave acted as a guard, so that they could see any attacks approaching their master head-on. Hawke had said they were friends, but could he trust her word alone? The very concept of him being free was incredible – far easier to believe that he'd fallen from Master Danarius' ownership and into Hawke's. Perhaps that was why she was here? Rather than kill her, Master Danarius had enslaved her for keeping an Imperial slave for herself.

It made a wild kind of sense, even though half of him thought the idea was ridiculous. She was a Southerner, for a start. They were not permitted to keep nor sell slaves – though that didn't stop certain high-ranking nobles who knew how to be discreet.

Hawke had a title, he remembered with a shock. Champion, Master Danarius called her. Surely she would have to be a noble in order to have a title?

Could it be true? Could she have been, not a friend for seven years, but a mistress? That could be why she wasn't permitted to speak of his past to him – if he'd felt any real loyalty towards her in that time, Master Danarius wouldn't want those feelings returning.

Her behaviour, however, was not one of a superior. When she spoke with him, even when they argued, she never acted as though he were beneath her. Rather, she treated him as an equal – a close friend, like she'd said. There was always an aching sadness in her eyes and voice when she was with him, as much as she tried to hide it, as though she was suffering a grievous loss.

Yet he barely knew her – even with his inexplicable insights into her character, Fenris had no way of knowing how truthful she was. It all came back down to his lack of knowledge of his past – something Hawke had.

He had no choice but to trust her word. He knew instinctively that he couldn't ask Danarius to clarify her claims – in his first few days, Fenris had asked about his past, and been flogged for his curiosity. The experience had told him something about his old life, however. There were scars on his back, crossing each other, raised and purple-red. Beneath the layer of newly healed marks were older scars – most were raised like the newer ones, but far closer to his natural skin colour, with the odd patch of purple still staining them. The few shallower marks that he could make out amongst the corded lines of scar tissue were thin, pale white – the results of knife wounds, he guessed. The fresh whip lashes were identical to the scars, only wider and still bleeding. From that, Fenris had gathered that he'd been whipped before, multiple times.

Did that mean he'd been an insubordinate slave? Or that his master had simply been keen on discipline? In the weeks since his lashing, Fenris had come to believe the latter was true, from the evidence he'd seen. It only reinforced his decision to remain silent around his master, unless ordered to speak. Danarius would only reward his questions with pain – and if Fenris mentioned Hawke, both of them could be punished.

So, Fenris decided as Hawke silently lead them through one of the slave's passages that led directly into the slave quarters, he would ask her instead. But he would make his own judgement on what was truth and what was not.

True to her word, by taking the hidden passage designed for the slaves' use, Hawke led Fenris into the slave quarters without encountering a single guard. This late at night, the kitchen was empty, though the fire still smouldered quietly in the huge cooking hearth, lending the darkened room a soft, rosy illumination.

There were no chairs in the room, despite the many tables and counters. Instead, Hawke sank down to sit on the floor in front of the fire with a sigh. After a moment, Fenris took the blade from his back, carefully leant it against the wall by the fire and sat next to her.

She was grinning at the greatsword for some, inexplicable reason. She caught his questioning look and elaborated with a soft laugh, nodding at the blade as she did.

"You always did that at home; resting your sword against the mantelpiece or the wall by the fire. It was just a daft little memory, I shouldn't- it's nothing," she said; the faint stain of embarrassment painting her cheeks as she ducked her head and waved her words away dismissively. Fenris, however, was intrigued.

"It isn't to me. What else did I do? Who am I, Hawke? And," he added, with a burst of inspiration, "who are you? I never thought to truly ask you that before."

She sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

"You used to revel in hunting slavers down. We ran into a lot of them, out at the Wounded Coast, some even in Kirkwall itself. You were a brilliant Wicked Grace player, and apparently the luckiest Diamondback one, if V- if one of our friends is to be believed. I can only tell you bits and pieces, you know," she interjected abruptly. "These small things, I think I can say, but I need to be careful about what I tell you. I...anything of real significance, I'm wary of telling you. I don't think you would tell Danarius voluntarily, but if I'm being painfully honest, I don't know if you would keep your own life a secret if Danarius ordered you to tell him what you knew. Please, let me finish," she asked, holding a polite hand up to forestall his obvious intention to interrupt.

Grudgingly, he subsided, consenting to listen. With a grateful nod, Hawke continued quietly. "Even if you would, could you do the same under threat of punishment? What if Danarius suspects, or even knows something already, and confronts you with it? Would you be able to hide any sign of recognition from him, when he knows you so well?" Fenris grimaced visibly, making Hawke's lips twitch in a rueful smile. She sighed. "Besides, there are some things that you probably wouldn't believe happened, even if I could tell you." Like Flemeth rising out of an amulet. Fighting a High Dragon. The disastrous results of the lyrium idol. Earning the Arishok's respect. Falling in love, even.

"If you cannot tell me about myself, will you tell me about you?" Fenris asked as a reluctant compromise. Hawke looked surprised, though if it was his willingness to cooperate or the subject he'd proposed, he couldn't tell.

"I...I guess. I can't tell you much about my life with you, but the rest...I don't see why not. What do you want to know?" She asked, almost warily. Fenris suppressed a grin. She was right to be cautious – he wouldn't press for details, but he was curious to see if he could trick her into revealing anything more about his life. He understood her reasons for not divulging much – though he had the impression she hadn't told him all her reasons – but understanding did not lessen his desire to know more.

"Everyone calls you Hawke, but what's your first name? I assume 'Hawke' is your family name, anyway," he started, thinking this would be a perfectly innocuous start to the conversation.

She opened her mouth to answer, and he almost saw the shape of the first letter – it was an open sound, a vowel, but then she faltered, a thoughtful look in her eye.

"I- Fenris, do you mind if I don't tell you? Not out of any rule, but as a...a test, I guess. You already know my first name – when you remember that, I'll know you've regained your lost memories. Do you mind?" She was honestly giving him a choice, he realised. If he pressed, she'd tell him.

But the idea intrigued him. It would be a way to measure if his memories were returning. If she had been involved in such a large part of his life, the memories of her should be some of the first to return, surely?

Fenris found himself smiling.

"Very well, Hawke. However, in return, will you help me try to regain my memories?"

That stunned her, he saw. He hastened to explain, before she could refuse.

"I don't expect any miracles, but anything you could do to help – any knowledge you may have from _before_...it would be appreciated."

She was quiet again, but there was an odd look in her eye as she considered him. Something like a stifled revelation, then – was that a blush?

Utterly bemused, Fenris stared as Hawke quickly looked aside, her lips twitching as though restraining a smile. She cleared her throat before looking back, apparently having drawn a veneer of calm around herself, though her lips were still curved upwards.

"Alright, Fenris. I'll try and help you, but I can't promise anything. Is that fair?"

Still confused at her odd reaction, but willing to dismiss it, Fenris nodded.

"It is."

Hawke nodded, turning in place to face him, an action Fenris mirrored as Hawke began to speak.

"Well, did any of the things I mentioned before – the Diamondback and Wicked Grace games, the Wounded Coast, any of that – seem familiar at all?"

Slowly, Fenris shook his head. Hawke seemed to have expected the reaction, however, because she gave a resigned nod.

"Well, that shows us that you won't remember everything by me simply reminding you of it – if you would, I'd be able to tell you everything, and we'd be half way to Kirkwall by now," she said lightly, though there was an undertone of sadness to it.

"We also know that you won't remember things by simply seeing them again – I'm a prime example of this. Did you remember who Danarius was, in your very first memories?" She asked, curious.

Fenris shook his head again.

"No, though my earliest memories that aren't of pain are...hazy, at best. I wasn't conscious for most of the time, but when I was, Danarius would talk to me – he told me I was his slave, his guard. He said he had created me. By the time I had...woken, I guess, fully, I knew all of this and accepted it as fact. Whether that is through an old imprint of a memory, or if I was simply highly suggestible while I was semi-conscious, I don't know. I think the latter, however, is closer to the truth. There's nothing in my early memories that doesn't seem to fit, or where I knew more than I should. I simply woke up with no memories." He concluded with a shrug that almost succeeded in being nonchalant.

"I see," Hawke murmured, a frown casting shadows across her brow. She seemed to be almost irritated with the revelation, though Fenris couldn't fathom why.

"Is that important?" He asked when it became clear she wasn't going to offer further comment. She grimaced in response, and he guessed that they were straying back onto the forbidden topics.

"Sort of? It's...different." When Fenris just stared at her, utterly bemused, Hawke sighed and waved expressively, as though trying to snare the words she needed out of the air. "You- alright, how much do you know about your markings?" The question took him by surprise, but Fenris found himself answering anyway, slightly haltingly as he processed what she'd said.

"Only that they are lyrium, injected under my skin in a process that our Master either created or refined. My earliest memories are of the ritual that put them there, so I assume they are the reason I lost my memory."

Hawke nodded, apparently relieved that he'd come to this conclusion on his own.

"They are," she confirmed, feeling no guilt about verifying a correct theory Fenris had already discovered himself. "But do you remember what I said to you, the first day you saw me?"

A small grin quirked at his mouth.

"You mean the second first time I saw you, I take it?" He asked rhetorically, and was rewarded with her warm laugh and agreement before he focussed and thought back nearly two and a half weeks to their rather odd encounter in the courtyard.

"'They're new. Those ones.'" He recalled, his hand lifting to point at the marks branching out across his forehead. Then his head jerked up as understanding struck him. "This has happened before? I've lost my memories before?" He asked, yet something inside him seemed to have clicked into place. There were no revelations, no flood of old memories, but a simple, unshakeable certainty that he was right. He barely needed Hawke's affirming nod.

"Yes, before I met you for the first time. I can't say much more than that, but-"

"Did I get them back?" He demanded. She looked away, the familiar edge of worry creeping back into her eyes. To draw her attention back and stop her from running again, he seized her hand, where it rested on her knee. She looked up sharply at that, staring helplessly at him. "Tell me, Hawke, please. If nothing else, tell me that." His tone was beseeching, but he didn't care. This was a chance to find out how to recover his life. Even if he had to lock every door in the room and tie Hawke to the cooking pot to get an answer, he would.

She was biting her lip, obviously torn, but her eyes didn't leave his and her hand turned beneath his, gripping it back as tightly as he held hers.

Finally, slowly, she nodded.

"Some of them, Fenris. Not all – it took a...a trigger to recover them, but you were remembering more as time went by." She explained, but her words sounded oddly distant to him. The tension had left his body; his hand merely rested on top of hers.

He could get them back. There _was_ a way to remember. He just needed to convince Hawke to tell him how.

"What was the trigger?" He asked quietly, his eyes finally starting to focus to look at her again. Hawke was mauling her lip again – obviously a nervous habit, because her eyes were diverted again as they usually were when she was fighting with releasing information. She took a breath, hesitated, then finally began to speak again, obviously uncomfortable about something. She still didn't look up at him.

"A visual one. You saw...someone you knew from your past. I am strictly not allowed to tell you who; so don't ask me, Fenris. But this was years, maybe a decade or more, after the ritual. I think that might be one of the reasons why a visual trigger worked then – I think the magic Danarius used to hold back your memories might slowly deteriorate, allowing you to remember things if you're prompted enough. But the second ritual is very recent; it was just over a month ago. The magic's still strong – that's why you don't remember me," she concluded in a murmur, finally glancing up at him with a small, uneasy shrug.

Fenris felt the flare of hope inside his chest wane slightly, but he hid his disappointment with an understanding nod.

"So it will take time for my memories to return?" He asked, and was answered with another half-shrug.

"I assume so, but I don't know for sure, Fenris. A lot of this is educated guesswork," she said apologetically, but he waved that away and nodded his acceptance.

"It's more than I had before, at least," he murmured, his gaze mindlessly occupied by the dying embers of the fire, even as his mind flew through everything he had learned. "You're sure there were no other triggers, Hawke?" He asked, without much hope. The pause before her answer seemed unusually long before he saw her head dip in his peripheral vision.

"Positive," she whispered softly, with a sadness that struck Fenris as odd, but not so strange to make him look around at her properly. If he had, he would have seen Hawke's miserable, bitter expression and realised she wasn't telling him something.

By the time Fenris had shaken himself out of his contemplative daze, Hawke had regained control of her expression enough to give him a tiny, if forlorn smile when he sat up and looked at her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more," she said, trying not to let her lie show in her face.

"You don't need to apologise, Hawke. You've told me far more than I expected, and given me much to think about. Thank you," he replied, the simple sincerity in his voice drawing a smile and a blush from her.

"You're welcome. I'm glad we could go a whole conversation without arguing. It's a good change," she said with an attempt at a grin that grew more genuine when Fenris looked away awkwardly, evidently embarrassed.

"I apologise if I-" He started, but she cut him off with a reassuring laugh.

"Now you're the one who doesn't need to apologise. I've hardly been cooperative myself. It's just an unfortunate fact of life that even the best of friends will argue at times," she said calmly, pretending not to see his odd twitch at the term 'best of friends'. "Especially when both are stubborn, with an occasionally bad temper," she added before an awkward silence could even be considered, grinning to show she meant no offence. To her relief, he relaxed again, returning her smile with a faint curve of his mouth.

"An 'occasionally bad temper'? That's an unusually generous description if ever I heard one," he chuckled, which she conceded to immediately.

"How about 'brooding at best, tearing hearts out at worst'?" She suggested with a grin. Fenris frowned, looking slightly put-out.

"I don't brood," he objected. Hawke just nodded with a disbelieving hum, the smile never leaving her face, even when Fenris narrowed his eyes at her.

They drifted into a silence, oddly comfortable despite the mild teasing. Fenris was gazing, eyes unfocused, into the whitened coals in the grate, their undersides still glowing orange as small tongues of fire occasionally peeked out from the gaps. Hawke was similarly watching the fire, but her eyes were focused, and occasionally rose to glance at her oblivious companion.

He looked well, she thought as she took the opportunity to truly examine him for the first time, without being distracted by conversation or frozen in shock. He was thinner than he had been in Kirkwall, but he hadn't lost a drastic amount of weight, the way she had. All his strength had remained, and his meaner diet only served to emphasise the lines of muscle and sharp angles of his face.

She was slowly becoming accustomed to the new lyrium veins that marked his arms and face. The three dots arranged in a triangle she'd first noticed on his forehead were occasionally repeated on his upper arms. Some of his previous tattoos had new branches twisting off them, and she could see glimmers of silver that hadn't been present before in the gap in the back of his tunic.

As she watched him, she noticed his gauntleted hands. He was holding his right wrist in his left hand, but what caught her attention was that his left thumb was repeatedly rubbing the same spot on his right gauntlet. He didn't even seem to notice he was doing it.

It took a moment, but in a bolt of clarity Hawke remembered his old habit of running his thumb over the red band he wore on his wrist when he was thinking. She'd never pointed it out, simply turning her head away from the sight, torn between sadness and a smile.

The quick movement of Hawke's head jerking up obviously caught Fenris' attention; he half-turned, frowning in confusion when he saw her tugging at her hair.

No, not her hair. The strip of red fabric binding it back. He'd never really noticed it before – for that matter, he'd rarely seen the back of her, except at a distance for those two weeks when she'd ran at the sight of him, and the few minutes it had taken them to navigate the slave's passages into the room they currently sat in. Both times, he'd been more than slightly preoccupied, and hadn't taken the time to examine her hair accessories.

As Hawke tugged the thin cloth from her hair, allowing the heavy waves to fall around her shoulders, Fenris realised the band was wider than it had appeared – it had been folded in half, and knotted several times to make it stay in place in her hair.

Carefully, Hawke undid the last few knots before brushing the cloth out as flat as it would go on the stone floor between them. It still sprang back into a few old bends; the remnants of the knots, bumping all along the red strip. It looked like a piece of clothing – a hem, perhaps, or a sleeve severed at the seam.

At her silent, encouraging glance, Fenris slowly reached out with his left hand, the gauntleted fingers running across the soft, age-worn material.

"It's very n-" his voice faded mid-way through his confused, polite comment, his eyes glazing over.

That sensation – the metal encasing his fingers running over the smooth fabric, resting on something as hard as stone...

No, not stone. _Bone_...and metal. The metal of his gauntlet-

Without explaining his sudden revelation, Fenris snatched up the cloth, draping it across his knee and resting his right wrist over the fabric, inner-arm up, his left hand quickly gathering the two ends together and folding them into a loose knot, tightened and doubled with the aid of his teeth. It was an old, well-practiced motion, and when he turned his hand over, looking at the back of his wrist and the red band wrapped around it, the _rightness_ of it simply fell into place. That strip of cloth _belonged_ on his wrist.

He looked up slowly at Hawke, his heart suddenly adopting rapid, shallow little beats that felt like a hummingbird swooping about his chest. She was staring at the red band, her lip caught tightly between her teeth, her expression utterly torn. It looked as though she was trying to clamp down on not only simple joy, but hope, yet her eyelashes looked suspiciously damp, heavy with emotion.

"Hawke?" He asked her unsteadily, feeling oddly as though he were about to lose his balance and fall, even though the position he was sitting in was perfectly steady.

"It's yours," she whispered, her voice thick with the tears her eyes held onto. "It was yours, you gave it back to me to keep safe for you – I just forgot I was wearing it then I saw you rubbing your wrist and I remembered because you never took it off and were always doing that-"

"Hawke, Hawke. _Hawke,_" his voice finally broke through to her and she stopped babbling, her breathing quick and ragged, stopping short as though to strangle her tears. Her body had taken up a fine trembling, but she'd kept a tight enough rein on her emotions to not let them overwhelm her.

She stared back at him, mute, her lips pressed together tightly in a bid to remain silent and to stop them quivering. Unsure of what else to do, he hesitantly rested his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to steady her. She bowed her head, dragging in a sharp breath, her hand lifting to cover the one on her shoulder, her touch consciously light. It occurred to him that she was purposefully trying to avoid hurting his markings, even when she was this distressed. As she lifted her head again, an attempt at composure dusting her face, he gave her a small smile of encouragement and thanks.

She managed to return it, a tad waveringly, but she'd dragged calm from somewhere.

"Thank you, Fenris," she whispered softly, her fingers flexing slightly on his gauntlet and making him aware, for some unfathomable reason, of just how much smaller her hands were than his.

He studied her for a moment, as though trying to solve a puzzle he found hidden in her face.

"This really means something to you, doesn't it? Not this, specifically," he added, lifting his free hand to show the red cloth encircling his wrist in a bid to show he wasn't stating the painfully obvious, "but...everything. Me regaining my memories."

Her bedraggled smile returned, and so naturally Fenris could tell she didn't even think about it, she replied.

"Not just that, Fenris. _You_ mean that much to me."

A jolt of surprise flowed through him, right as her eyes leapt wide open and her free hand flew to her mouth. She froze, as though waiting for him to shout or push her away. Instead he stared at her, his lips parted in surprise, half-way to forming a question. Her alarm stopped him, the impulse to ask crumbling in his mouth as he found himself gazing at hers, half-revealed behind her finger tips as her hand unconsciously drifted away from her face.

His heart was still beating rapidly, but the feather-light flutters were gone, replaced by a frantic pounding he had only ever experienced in battle but seemed completely fitting here too as he felt himself drawn down towards her.

The sound of the guards rowdy jeering, introduced and cut off by the opening and slamming of a door made them both leap apart, twisting around to face the noise in a dazed bewilderment. The bitter Arcanum mutterings of a slave as he entered from a night shift on his way to his meagre pallet allowed relief to seep into their limbs like weakness, followed swiftly by a strained silence. It was soon broken by Hawke clambering to her feet, pointlessly dusting down her patched dress, two swathes of burning pink in her cheeks, her eyes averted to the wall since if she looked down she'd be staring directly at Fenris.

He quickly followed her, standing in his slight hunch that he tended to adopt when he was embarrassed or wanted to avoid attention. They both stood, silent, eyes averted, before Fenris took a breath and broke the hush.

"Hawke, I-" he stopped, realising he had no idea what to say. He opened and half-closed his mouth a few times before giving up, snapping his jaws shut in frustration.

She seemed to understand, however, and finally looked up, catching his eyes.

She gave him a soft, shy smile even though her madly burning cheeks had yet to cool.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Fenris," she finished for him, and he nodded, relieved that she was at least more articulate than he was in awkward situations.

She was walking past him, heading for the slaves quarters when he looked down and remembered the red banner around his wrist.

He turned, unthinkingly catching her arm, only realising that with anyone else he would have shied away from the contact when he'd caught her and she was looking back at him, curious.

Still, there was no pain – his hands were almost immune to it, but Fenris had the strange impression that even if he held her tightly against him, even without his armour, it wouldn't hurt-

The memory of her face drawing nearer, utterly unguarded and with her eyes sliding half-closed bloomed in his mind, twisting his last thought into him holding her, with no clothes to impede them...

"Fenris?"

Her voice cut cleanly through the unexpected distraction, dragging him back to the reason he'd pulled her back in the first place.

_Pull her closer_.

Forcefully banishing the errant impulse, even as his heart gave another treacherous thud, Fenris released her arm in favour of lifting his wrist so she could see the cloth.

"You said I gave you this to keep safe. Who- can you tell me who from?" He asked, correcting himself as he remembered the rules holding her tongue.

_Her tongue and teeth, dragging down the column of his throat as he bared it for her; only for her-_

_Stop it!_ He scolded himself, biting his own tongue to keep his focus firmly on Hawke's answer as she grimaced and shook her head.

He nodded, thinking quickly.

"Does-do those conditions still apply? Does this still need to be kept safe?"

She nodded this time.

"They do, but...I think you could keep it, as long as _no one_ sees it. If it isn't safe to leave it where you sleep, you could wear it under your armour, perhaps." She suggested. Mentally, Fenris groaned, suppressing another barrage of images of the two of them in situations that did not require armour, nor clothing of any kind. Why did she have to use those words? He wondered wretchedly as he nodded in acceptance, infinitely relieved that he had complete control over his face – and the rest of him, for that matter.

"Thank you, Hawke," he managed, with a small but genuine smile, "for keeping it safe."

Her warm smile was his reward as she nodded.

"Goodnight, Fenris," she said.

"Goodnight," he murmured, watching as she turned and headed towards the large communal bedroom for the household slaves, her freed hair and her hips swaying as she went.

Fenris sighed, scooping up the abandoned greatsword from its spot by the fire place, swinging it effortlessly onto his back as he headed for the secret passage out of the slave quarters, the nights events replaying in his mind – particularly those last few minutes of...what? Mutual attraction? Momentary insanity? _He_ certainly felt as though he'd taken leave of his senses, but...she'd been about to reciprocate. Of that he was almost certain.

Once again, the memory of him pinning her against a stone wall, anger and shock melding into desire flooded his head as he reached his own straw pallet, in a room just off of Danarius' sleeping quarters, and collapsed onto the bed.

As he struggled to find sleep, that one memory played in a loop in his mind, though it was only as sleep finally started to drag him under that he realised in the memory, Hawke hadn't been wearing her slave's garb. She'd been wearing a tunic, with a crest stitched into the breast.

A _red_ tunic.

When he woke, the sense of revelation remained, but exactly what he had remembered persistently eluded him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't recall those last, vital moments of conscious thought before sleep stole them from him.


	12. Chapter 12

Hello again! I'm not entirely sure how long it's been since my last update - probably over a month, I think, but to make up for the wait, this is officially the longest chapter of the fic so far, with several key parts I hope you'll enjoy ;P As usual, I've not proof-read the whole thing (though I have read over several scenes multiple times. Does that count?), so any mistakes/typos/characterisation problems are free game for you to shout at me for, just pm me or review if you like and I'll try and fix it.

I apologise in advance for the butchered Latin (standing in for Arcanum), I tried many different translation sites and none of them agreed on any of the sentences, so if anyone speaks Latin, a) I apologise, and b) please tell me what I should have put! The translations (or what I actually meant to say, anyway) are at the bottom of the page.

I've got a feeling that I've forgotten to say something, but if I have, hopefully it'll come to me later. Ah well.

EDIT: I don't think this is what I forgot to say, but I just remembered that this whole chapter actually wasn't meant to happen XD Hawke and Fenris got carried away. So what _should_ have happened in this chapter will either be in the next one or the one after that. Theoretically.

Thanks to everyone who reads this, especially to my reviewers, and I hope you enjoy.

Oh, and **Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything.**

* * *

><p>"...You'll be supervising her training from now on, along with several guards of course. You are not to train unless at least three guards are present, and you will use practice weapons. I want her to be able to at least put up a decent fight for several minutes by the end of the month. You're to do three hours of training a day; more if your schedules allow and the guards are available. The training does not excuse you from your regular duties. Am I clear, pet?"<p>

"Yes, Master."

"Good. Now, leave. My new apprentice will be here soon, and after that I'll be in my workshop for the rest of the day, so I expect you to make good use of the ample time available to you."

"I will, Master. Thank you, Master."

Keeping his head inclined in a bow until he had backed out of Danarius' office and closed the door, Fenris paused outside of it in thought, before heading off down the corridor.

Why Danarius wanted to train Hawke with weapons all of a sudden, Fenris didn't know. But it was an opportunity to spend more time with her, so he couldn't complain even in private.

By the end of the month...the only notable event at the end of Parvulis was the Masquerade for the new magister. Perhaps Danarius intended Hawke to act as a secret bodyguard? Such a large, populated event would be the perfect opportunity for an assassination; and any decent assassin would be able to pick out Danarius' armed guards, and Fenris himself of course, and plan for them. But would they take note of a simple house hold slave? A fragile scrap of a woman, there only to look pretty and pour the wine? Hawke could be ideally placed to counter a surprise attack.

Or to take the hit herself, the grim, pragmatic side of him noted.

Either way, Fenris reflected as he absently side-stepped a red-haired woman heading in the opposite direction he was, Danarius had seen it fit to appoint _him _as Hawke's trainer.

He didn't know if that should worry him or not. Did Danarius suspect they'd met each other – several times, in fact? Or was he aware that if he appointed a guard as her trainer, Hawke would learn nothing; instead having to fight off their advances or endure their mindless criticism and jeering the whole time? At least Danarius knew Fenris would _teach_ her how to fight, not just make it a necessity to survive the hours relatively unscathed.

Fenris was unable to decide which was more likely. He was certain they'd been discreet in their meetings – he was positive that last night, at least, no one had seen either of them entering the slave quarters, nor him leaving.

But that first day, in the courtyard – there had been plenty of people present; walking between jobs or standing guard. _Anyone_ could have reported them – he wouldn't be surprised if Danarius had asked his guards to inform him if they saw Fenris and Hawke interacting at all.

Some part of him argued that Danarius wouldn't have waited this long to act on the report, but Fenris knew his master could be patient. Once, when Danarius had been in a particularly fine mood, he had deigned to explain why – not that Fenris had asked, but the magister had a habit of gloating when in a good mood. Apparently an assassination attempt Danarius had been masterminding for the past five years had finally been carried out flawlessly. Danarius had loathed the magister targeted, but he had been quite capable of waiting half a decade to kill the man, just to make sure the plan worked. If Danarius could wait that long to kill a political opponent, he could easily wait a few weeks to deal with an errant slave.

Even if it hadn't been the meeting in the courtyard, there were all those times in the hallways, when she'd been avoiding him...Danarius could have seen her turn and begin walking in the opposite direction...or he could have seen the frustration it caused Fenris, whether Fenris was aware he'd shown it or not.

There were too many possibilities to consider. All Fenris could do was tell Hawke so that she was aware of what Danarius may or may not know, and exert even more caution. He'd have to ensure their interactions were those of strangers, so that the guards had nothing to report other than orders dutifully being carried out.

First, however, he had to find Hawke.

The slave quarters were empty at this time of day; everyone was out working. There was no list of who did what chores, obviously – it would be useless to most of the slaves even if they were allowed to look at it – and Fenris had no idea what jobs Hawke had been assigned.

His only clue was the time she'd been summoned to Danarius' office the night after the guards were killed. She'd been cleaning the entrance staircase, and one of the ballrooms before that – the west one, he remembered.

He'd check the staircase first.

He planned on snagging any slave he passed on the way there to ask if they'd seen Hawke and shorten his time searching, but corridors tended to be cleaned first thing of a morning or last thing at night, so the only slave he saw on the way to the staircase was at the far end of the corridor, and they'd turned into a side passage and vanished into a room by the time he reached the place he'd seen them.

When he reached the grand staircase, there was no sign of Hawke kneeling on the stairs or attacking the banisters with a cloth, so Fenris called up to a young elf on a mountainous step-ladder, polishing the individual crystals on the magnificent chandelier.

"Tu, puer, vidistis Hawke?"

The boy jumped, the crystal ringing out in surprise as he turned on his precarious perch.

"Qui?"

"Hawke," Fenris repeated, giving a quick description when simply speaking louder only drew a blank look.

"Ah! Etiam, ambulo istac. Recidivus victualia," the elf replied in serviceable but amateur Arcanum. The boy must have been a foreign captive, learning the native language. He pointed down one of the many corridors containing stock rooms with an oddly wide, companionable grin for such a simple message. Fenris nodded his thanks, hiding his bemusement, before heading down the indicated route, hesitating outside the door, remembering Hawke's explanation about the 'system' the slaves had worked out.

With a quick glance around from beneath his hair for guards, Fenris copied the actions he'd only half-noticed at the time; waiting patiently for the single knock that admitted him into the room.

Hawke had already turned away from the door, and was standing on one of the lower shelves of a storage unit and stretching up to reach the top one, a large, heavy jar in her outstretched hands. An upturned bucket, lower than the shelf she was standing on, lay abandoned on the floor.

"There we go," he heard her mutter under her breath as she finally got the bottom of the jar above the level of the shelf and nudged it further back with her fingertips.

"Tu opus aliquid, Vasilia?" She asked over her shoulder, her words slow and badly-pronounced as she carefully stepped down from the shelf. Fenris walked around her as she cautiously clambered down her make-shift ladder, staring in concentration at the shelves, leaning in close to them to avoid pulling the whole unit down.

He couldn't help but grin when she jumped at the movement in her peripheral vision, clutching at a wooden box full of cleaning rags and half raising it as though to crack him over the head with it, the cloths tumbling out like disturbed, half-asleep bats, before jumping again when she recognised him, hissing a decidedly Common curse in alarm that only made his mouth curve further.

Easily tugging the box out of her shocked, unresisting hands, Fenris couldn't quite resist the little comment that sprang to mind.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Hawke, but I'm not Vasilia. And while I don't need any cleaning utensils, I do need to speak with you. Preferably in Common; I won't subject you to a full conversation in Arcanum just yet," he smiled, quite pleased that she was speechless, and not simply refusing to talk for once.

When she could finally articulate a response, it was a retort.

"Give me some credit; I've only had a few months to learn! At least I know what I'm saying now, instead of just repeating random phrases I heard and getting odd looks," she said, altogether defensive, but from the way she folded her arms and smiled around her words, he could tell she wasn't truly offended.

He chuckled, conceding with a nod.

"And you seem to be doing remarkably well, all things considered."

"Being stranded in a foreign country _is_ quite a motivator," she agreed mildly, pointedly avoiding all references to being enslaved. No need to dampen their good moods, after all.

"I imagine so," he replied, storing the box back on its designated shelf as Hawke snatched up the fallen cloths and deposited them back in their container.

"You _know_ so," Hawke muttered as the last cloth dropped silently onto its fellows, catching the surprised lift of Fenris' head with a mischievous grin. "Come on, Fenris, _I_ didn't teach you Common or Qu-" she clamped her jaws shut on the words, her hand half-shooting to her mouth before the motion became redundant. Fenris, however, had heard enough.

"Hawke? Were you about to say Qunari?" He asked suspiciously. She fidgeted for a moment, whispering a berating tirade at herself under her breath that Fenris heard every word of, before sighing and saying so sheepishly it was almost a question, "shanedan, Fenris."

He opened his mouth to ask what she had just said, before the meaning crashed into his mind, followed by a deluge of other words, sentences, a whole language.

Yet not one image or sound of where he'd learnt it.

"Fenris?"

He nearly jumped when he blinked and Hawke was at his side, looking concerned. He'd been utterly unaware of her moving closer, nor of her hands hovering inches away from his arms as though to steady him in case he fell. From that alone he guessed some of his shock had shown on his face.

"I am...well. Just...sorely confused. It is an odd experience, to recall a whole language at once." He murmured, sounding the slightest bit shaky to his own ears. Evidently Hawke heard the fine tremor as well, as she grimaced in sympathy and gently rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Again, he expected pain and it didn't arrive. He relaxed under the gentle pressure with a sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he forcefully ordered his thoughts. He could explore this new language later; for now he had a job to do.

"It is fine, Hawke. I came here to deliver a message, and I've delayed long enough," he said, injecting some firmness into his voice as he straightened. Hawke was already drawing back, seemingly having read his decision simply through the contact with his shoulder, or perhaps his body language. All he knew is that she was reining her concern back almost before he had collected himself.

"Master Danarius has ordered that you complete at least three hours of combat training a day, and I'm to be your supervisor. Of course, we ourselves will be supervised by the guards," he added, finding just an edge of unexpected bitterness in his tone.

Why should he be bitter? Danarius had every right to have them guarded; they were _his_ slaves. Simple property. The lack of freedom or even privacy had never concerned him before.

"_Combat training?_ _Me?_" She gaped at him when Fenris nodded, feeling slightly wary at how incredulous her voice had become. "Is that old git _insane?_" She hissed, plunging into a burst of action, throwing her hands up and pacing, utterly ignoring or oblivious to Fenris choking on the shock, reprimands, and – if he were honest – stunned laughter of their master being addressed as such that queued up in his throat at once.

"I mean, if I get to fight, I won't complain, but – oh, _shit_-" the violent curse that left her, along with her abrupt whirl to face him made Fenris even more edgy, suddenly unsure of how Hawke would react. She'd always been unpredictable, but not like this. Before, it was because she was apt to run at the slightest thing. Now, Fenris could detect a distinctly predatory excitement about her, as though instead of run, she was more likely to lunge forward on the offensive.

"You're to be my supervisor? He specifically said _you_ would be?" She pressed, switching from distracted shock to an intense focus that Fenris couldn't help but relate to a warrior.

Solemn, already knowing what Hawke had realised, he nodded. She swore again, returning to pacing – or _stalking_ in the short space.

"How did he find out we'd met again? Why else would he put you as my supervisor? Why does he even want me trained again anyway? It's utterly pointless. I'm never going to be in a situation where I'll need to fight; he _knows_ I can't use it against him..." The growl in her voice grew throughout her agitated theorising until she gave a suppressed, wordless scream of frustration, her hands dragging at her unbound hair, her eyes unfocused but darting across the floor as though chasing invisible spiders.

"Hawke." Fenris' sharp demand cut into her disquiet, and she slammed to a stop in the middle of the room, rocking on her feet as she drew her balance back while her momentum tried to drive her forward. She closed her eyes, visibly drawing calm around her, before opening her eyes. She didn't look at him, but he knew that small motion as a sign to continue.

"I don't know if Danarius knows about us-" Why did that sound like they were illicit lovers? "-but he mentioned the end of Parvulis. He wants you to 'be able to put up a decent fight for several minutes' by then. He didn't say why, but the only notable event at the end of the month is-"

"-the Masquerade," Hawke intoned along with him, waving away his curious look. "Slaves hear everything, word gets round. Why does he want me to fight by then?" She murmured this last to herself, her brow furrowed in thought.

Fenris gave a tired, one-shouldered shrug.

"I couldn't say. Perhaps he wishes an extra body guard; one he can disguise as a simple domestic slave? I've heard him say that he'll but surprised if fewer than ten assassination attempts occur at the masquerade; it will be a huge venue, and the centre of public attention. The perfect place to make a political statement. He may believe he will be the target of such an attempt. He hasn't survived this long without such paranoia."

Hawke gave a low huff and a grimace of what could only be disappointment. Fenris tilted his head, curious.

"You...dislike our master?" He asked carefully. Hawke simply gave him a flat stare, as though he'd stated the painfully, stupidly obvious, but then some of her old worry crept in, oddly belated. She looked away again, chewing on her lip in what Fenris recognised as her 'debating over an answer' expression.

"I resent having my freedom stolen from me," she finally replied, her words slow, deliberate. She carefully avoided mentioning Danarius in person, Fenris noticed.

He shifted, uncomfortable. He'd never been able to understand the captive slaves' attitudes towards their new master.

"He is a magister. It is his right to own slaves," he muttered, feeling inordinately uneasy, as though he were insulting her. When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was staring straight at him again, a new coldness in her eyes – but not for him, he realised.

"It is _no one's_ right to own another person, Fenris. It's abhorrent." She said quietly, with untarnished conviction. Despite the odd thrill that tore down the inside of his spine and spread across the back of his throat, Fenris looked down again, ashamed and conflicted. The magisters owned slaves, it was that simple. They always had. Slaves were _meant_ to be owned. They were property.

But we're also people, something tiny inside him insisted.

Hawke broke him out of his reverie, stepping closer and peering under his hair, her eyes uncommonly tender when compared to the glacier they had just housed.

"Hey," she murmured, giving him a small smile, the sadness in the motion somehow negating the lightness of that single word, giving it a solemn gravity. "Don't ever feel embarrassed by what he's done, Fenris," she urged him gently, slowly reaching out to brush his hair behind his ear. He couldn't quite stop his eyes from trying to close; or from leaning against her hand when her fingers skated down behind his ear and the side of his face. "-Including how he's made you think," she finished with a smile as his eyes half opened again, meeting her gaze evenly.

His lips quirked up in the smallest, yet most sincere of his smiles.

"I'll try," he murmured, sighing as her thumb whispered underneath his eye, soothing the skin there.

There was no tension, no inexplicable urge. It just felt utterly normal – _right_, even – to close the gap between them and gently ghost his lips across hers. She responded instinctively with the lightest pressure, then stilled for a moment in delayed shock, only to relax again with a soft sigh of what might have been relief. It was simple, sweet, as comforting as it was romantic, but right then it was all either of them wanted.

It was such a curious sensation to have her lips curve up into a smile against his, that he found himself smiling with her, before both of them laughed softly, eyes opening to see each other chuckle.

With a low hum of humour, Hawke rested her forehead against his briefly, feeling secure for the first time in three months. Idly, Fenris realised that his arms were wrapped loosely around her, while hers rested over his collarbone, untroubled by the coolness of his breastplate.

They both held onto the comfort for a few seconds more, reluctant to break it, but eventually Fenris sighed and shifted. Hawke was already starting to look up, her eyes resigned but gentle as they pulled apart.

"We should make our way to the training ring," he murmured, even his hushed tone seeming rudely loud in the quiet solitude they had built. "No doubt Mas-" he was cut off by Hawke's fingertips coming to rest against his lips, refreshingly bold as she replied with a rueful twist to her voice.

"Don't you dare," she murmured wryly. "He's not going to ruin this, too." Fenris frowned, bemused, but Hawke simply smiled, dropping her hand to kiss him softly again, savouring it, before stepping back, facing the door and rolling her shoulders as though bracing herself for a brisk winter wind.

"Ready? I believe you said something about training," she smiled back over her shoulder. With a slightly helpless shake of his head, Fenris started to nod, but paused.

"Hawke?" She turned; her hand resting lightly on the handle, but attentive. Fenris shifted uncomfortably, hating to spoil what had just happened. "When we're out there, we'll have to act as though we barely know each other. We can't be...familiar with each other, at all," he muttered, reluctant but practical. The fear that Danarius would discover these meetings with Hawke festered and simmered at the back of his mind, driving his words. But while he'd imagined Hawke to be disappointed or upset, she simply gave him a thin, knowing smile.

"Don't worry, Fenris. I think you'll find me to be a more than satisfactory actress. I've been lying through my teeth to Templers since I could talk, after all," she laughed. Fenris' head jerked back in surprise.

"You're a _mage_?" He asked, utterly disbelieving and, if he acknowledged the coil of fear dripping around his spine, slightly panicked. Hawke smiled sadly and shook her head, however.

"Not me. Father was, and my little sister Bethany. They were apostates – I had to lie to protect them from the Templars. If we hadn't, Father – a practicing apostate – would have been killed or made Tranquil, Bethany taken to the circle to grow up there." Here, Hawke gave a bitter little laugh. "Not that it made much difference, in the end. Father still died, and Bethany still ended up in the Gallows. Ironic really." Fenris watched her, observing the grieving tilt of her head towards the door and the hopeless drop of her shoulders. Before he could say something he hoped would be more supportive than tactless, Hawke gave herself a small shake and lifted her head, pushing her shoulders back pointedly.

"But we're not here to chat about my family. We should go," she said with forced brightness, this time opening the door without giving him a chance to object.

By the time he had followed her out of the door; her expression had been completely rearranged.

She looked confused, slightly nervous and..._intimidated?_ Suddenly, he realised that she looked the same way most of the other slaves did when they spoke to him.

Clever girl.

He led her down the corridors, Hawke only half a step behind and just visible in his peripheral vision, so he saw when she started worrying her lip again – a sure sign she was about to say something she didn't particularly want to. But he pretended not to notice this small clue, waiting for her to speak before glancing around at her, and eyebrow half-lifted in question.

"Um, Fenris? I, er...I can't fight in these clothes."

Fenris blinked. Of all comments, this he hadn't expected.

"Those...clothes...?"

She nodded sheepishly.

"The skirt, really. It's too long – impractical to fight in. I'd need either a shorter skirt or a pair of breeches. Preferably breeches. If that could be arranged," she added hastily, dipping her head meekly, her eyes darting across the floor that passed beneath them.

She really _could_ act.

Fenris turned to face forward again, thinking.

"It should be acceptable. We should be able to find some spare breeches in either the laundry room or one of the guards' supply rooms, correct?" Hawke nodded. In addition to it being the place where the slaves cleaned the clothes and sheets of the whole estate, it also acted as a store room for surplus linens and clothes.

They detoured to the laundry room, where Hawke rifled through the excess uniforms, finding a pair of breeches that more or less fit and closing herself in the storage closet to change, emerging with a spare shirt and pair of soldier's boots as well as the breeches, though her thick belt remained. Fenris raised his eyebrows at the additions, but didn't comment, instead allowing Hawke to hide her own clothes in a discreet corner before leading her out to the training field.

He couldn't help but notice the unusual confidence she had as she walked, utterly comfortable in the trousers and knee-high boots.

According to her, they had spent time hunting slavers somewhere called the Injured...no, the Wounded Coast. So she must have at least some skill in fighting, he assumed. He was admittedly curious to see just how well trained she was – by looking at her, he would have doubted her ability to even lift some weapons, never mind wield them with any level of efficiency.

There were several guards in the arena, sparring, shooting at targets or simply socialising, if the groups standing around the perimeter were anything to judge by.

A gruff voice calling 'elf' drew Fenris' attention to the captain of the guard, who approached the pair with a disgruntled air.

"I'm told you're going to train this...woman," he stated, the last word rolling in something between amusement and disgust. Fenris merely remained silent and nodded, carefully controlling the affronted roil of anger in his gut as the captain continued. "And some of my men are to be your _babysitters_ until you're done?" The captain was outright scornful now, evidently seeing this as an utter waste of time, and quite possibly an insult to his ability. Fenris held his gaze evenly, purposefully keeping his tone neutral.

"If you object to Master Danarius' wishes, I'm certain you could ask to speak with him and arrange and alternative solution," he intoned, picturing the rank-smelling scorch mark on the floor that would be left if the captain actually had such gall. From the man's withering look, he knew what the consequences of questioning Danarius would be too.

"Don't get smart with me, elf. You can spar. My men will watch. Don't expect more than that," the captain growled through the sneering shape of his slim-lipped mouth, seeming even more frustrated by Fenris' calm nod of acceptance. With a last glower at the two of them, the man strode off towards a training dummy, snagging a sword from near the wall as he went before starting to hack at it with unnecessary violence.

Fenris glanced over at Hawke, noticing now that she had her head down – presumably to make the captain think she was scared or submissive, but Fenris had an odd suspicion that she was struggling not to laugh.

When she lifted her head, however, she was perfectly composed, if shooting wary glances at the soldiers around them.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Fenris lead Hawke over to a large bench, upon which assorted weapons lay, all blunted or wooden for training.

Before Fenris could ask her preference, Hawke had dived for a pair of blunt steel daggers; simple, straight blades, no decoration. The moment she had them in her hands, she relaxed, an easy smile passing briefly across her face as she tested their balance.

"Not bad," she muttered, giving the two several experimental flips, to Fenris' surprise.

To disguise the errant emotion, he started to set aside the greatsword Danarius had provided him with, reaching instead for a training one when Hawke shook her head.

"You don't have to do that. Use – you can use your own one if you like," she offered, obviously biting her tongue on an unconscious order. Despite the temptation, neither glanced around to check if she'd been heard – it would have only broadcast that they had done something they shouldn't. Instead, Fenris nodded and resettled his usual blade against his back, though he did silently resolve to be more cautious about his attacks. He didn't want to accidentally kill her because she was too slow to dodge.

Hawke started rolling her shoulders and flexing her hands, the only warm-up she allowed herself. It was more than she usually got during the numerous ambushes she'd experienced in and around Kirkwall, and she'd learnt to adapt to the sudden jolt into rapid action without warning her muscles. Her comparatively weak physical state concerned her – she was sorely out of practice, but she couldn't really help that.

Still, having the reassuring weight of a pair of daggers back in her hands calmed her immeasurably, and she found herself settling easily into her sparring stance, Fenris doing the same opposite her.

Luckily, she had the advantage of prior knowledge here. Although Fenris was vastly stronger and most probably faster than her by now, even without using his markings, he no longer knew her fighting style. Hawke, however, knew his every move, his every 'tell', as Varric would call them. She knew what slight tremor of muscle meant he was about to lunge or jump or feint, what subtle quirk of his mouth or tiny frown said about his confidence against his opponent.

His wide eyes of surprise when he feinted left then swept around to try and cut her right leg off at the hip and she easily leapt back and parried the blow was so satisfying, Hawke couldn't help the wicked grin she shot him as she darted forward, insistently pressing him back with quick jabs and sudden twists to strike at his side or back. But even startled as he was, Fenris didn't allow it to cloud his instincts and recovered quickly. He strafed around a well-timed combination of an overhand swipe at his sword arm and jab at his neck, bringing his sword around and over his head in a strike that could easily cleave her in two. Instead, Hawke spun aside, the movement tight enough to bring her almost back-to-back with the elf. He leapt forward before the two daggers could strike his kidneys, turning sharply and, instead of swiping again, he kept his shoulder lowered and used his momentum to charge forward, trying to surprise the rogue and knock her clean off her feet.

She wasn't where she should have been, having rolled sideways as he turned, and instead he felt a helping hand on his back and an extended leg against his shins as he ran past her. He caught his fall with one hand, managing to keep his sword arm extended so he didn't cut himself to pieces on the greatsword as he followed the movement through and forward rolled, coming straight up on his feet and turning in time to block her mid-air strike at his head and throat.

Both of them were grinning as they blocked and parried, and soon they were turning around the ring, ducking and spinning around each other, forgetting that this was meant to be an experimental spar only.

Yet barely five minutes of intense fighting had passed before the strain really took its toll. Her breath was already heaving as she shoved Fenris back a step, attaining some desperately needed room. With a jolt of self-disgust, she realised her arms were trembling with the effort of holding the blades aloft.

She saw Fenris watching her carefully, saw his stance loosen slightly, on the verge of offering a break.

With a snarl, Hawke threw herself forward again, funnelling her frustration with herself and her almost manic rage at Danarius for reducing her to this into her screaming muscles and lungs instead of oxygen. Fenris fell back under the surprise onslaught, his eyes once again wide for a second until he blocked and knocked her back, gaining ground and an equal footing in the spar again before Hawke, her breath deep gulps of ragged air interspaced with furious growls that stretched into something more like screeches, launched forward again.

Fenris allowed it for another few seconds, batting away the weakening yet increasingly desperate strikes with ease as Hawke exhausted herself.

Finally, when she was practically staggering towards him, blades extended in the hope she'd hit something, Fenris knocked her back and planted his blade into the soft sand of the arena, holding his empty hands up before she could fall at him again.

"Take a break, Hawke. You'll only hurt yourself by continuing like this," he ordered. For a long moment, she glared at him, as though contemplating ignoring him and lunging again, but finally she nodded, throwing her daggers, blades-first into the sand as well and turning towards the arena wall, apparently only her momentum carrying her the last few feet, upon which she slid down the wall, her head bowed between her knees, shoulders still heaving.

Only slightly winded himself, though with an unexpected new respect for the woman on the ground, Fenris gave her a minute to berate herself – he'd heard her vicious hissing under her breath as she'd walked away – as he went to the well and drew up one of the buckets stacked by the ring of curved stone blocks.

By the time he returned to Hawke, bucket full of shade-cooled water, she had sat back so her head rested against the wall and had stopped talking to herself, but was still glowering at the burning Tevinter sky. She only looked around when Fenris set the bucket down next to her before sinking down the wall to sit with her, gesturing at the bucket when she just looked at him.

"You first," he muttered, letting Hawke cup the water in her hands to drink or pour over her head. When she sat back, the collar of her borrowed/stolen shirt wet and her breath finally calming, Fenris took his own drink, listening patiently when Hawke started muttering again – to him, this time.

"I'm sorry for this. It must seem like a waste of your time, only being able to spar for six or seven minutes at a time. It's _pathetic_," she said savagely, one clenched fist beating the ground beside her ineffectually, before sighing in frustration.

Fenris couldn't help snorting. When Hawke glanced over at him, surprised and – despite her own declarations of weakness – slightly hurt, he quickly shook his head, eager to avoid any misunderstandings.

"Forgive me, but I have to disagree with you. Your stamina may-"

"Be abysmal?" Hawke suggested; which Fenris all but ignored except for an amused quirk of his mouth.

"-need improvement, but your skill with blades is excellent. If you were in top form, I'd be exceedingly wary of actually fighting you. You'd be a dangerous opponent, at the very least." Of all the compliments to make a woman smile like a bashful teenager, Fenris wouldn't have picked that one, but there was Hawke, grinning awkwardly and staring at her boots.

Before the quiet could become uncomfortable – or charged, which could be just as bad, given their present company – Fenris straightened up, falling back into a training mindset.

"But obviously, you are out of practice, and your muscles are severely atrophied." At this assessment, Hawke sobered and looked up, her expression level but open. "I think a lot of your training will be simple stamina and muscle building, along with resistance training – the skill is still there, but the support it needs isn't. Your diet may need adjusting as well, if possible, although..." Here, Fenris trailed off, and Hawke grimaced in understanding. He was barely fed enough to sustain his current strength, denied meals often for the slightest fault, and he was Danarius' personal bodyguard. As a domestic slave, Hawke must find it near impossible to get any decent food.

Danarius would be expecting a report on her progress and Fenris' initial assessment, however, so Fenris could list Hawke's lack of nutrition as a severe detriment to her ability to fight. If Danarius was in a pleasant mood, he might even avoid a punishment for impertinence.

Pushing aside his concerns about Danarius' reaction, Fenris returned his focus to Hawke, sitting with her eyes half-closed against the sharp sunlight.

She lifted her head when she saw him move, attentive once again.

"Master Danarius said you're to do three hours of training a day, in addition to your usual duties," he said, trying not to let a note of apology into his voice when Hawke simply closed her eyes, resigned and exhausted. "To make it easier, try taking the jobs downstairs; or less strenuous ones if you have the choice. I know your work is tiring, but try not to work yourself too hard, otherwise we'll have no hope of doing three hours each day – you'll only cripple yourself with exhaustion or torn muscles." He suggested as Hawke opened her eyes again. She nodded, rubbing her temple wearily.

"I'll try and arrange it. I'm more concerned about the 'every day' bit. Does he know that training every day can do more harm than good?"

Fenris shrugged, uncertain.

"He may. However, if Master wishes us to work that hard, we will. I've done so before, so it is possible," he offered in an attempt at support. Hawke snorted.

"You never lost all your toning, Fenris. Trust me, I'll struggle," she said bluntly, not allowing embarrassment or anger to cloud her voice. She sighed, looking out at the ring, her eyes narrowed against the sun reflecting up from the sand. "I'll do it though. What Master wants, he gets, after all," she murmured softly, her tone far too bitter for Fenris' comfort.

To distract them both he stood, purposefully ignoring the irritated glare of the guard captain.

"Come, we've rested enough. Are you ready?"

Hawke grimaced, her nose wrinkling like a displeased lion's, but she nodded and hauled herself to her feet with a low mutter.

"No, but the sooner three hours pass, the sooner I can go to bed and collapse."

* * *

><p>Varric sat back from the maps, documents and speculation scattered across his table, sighing and closing his eyes, ignoring the pile of mail left at his elbow by a disgruntled Edwina.<p>

Three months. Three; and still no leads.

How the two could just _vanish_ like that astounded him. Ancestors knew, even he would struggle to find two more distinctive people in this circus of a city.

At first, he and the others had simply thought the two had locked themselves in one of their mansions for several days, and only he and Isabela would even dare to imagine interrupting _that_ little liaison.

But after two full days had passed, Bodahn Feddic had arrived at the Hanged Man, wild-eyed with concern. Varric had had to shove a drink into the man's hands to stop them wringing.

According to the dwarf, neither Hawke nor Fenris had returned to the mansion since the night Danarius died. After the second day had passed with no word from Hawke – unusual, for her, seeing how considerate of her staff she was – Bodahn had gone to Fenris' pit of a mansion and found it deserted.

Varric had reassured the manservant that the two had probably gone on an impromptu trip somewhere outside the city, to put the haggard man's mind at ease.

As soon as Bodahn had left, however, Varric had walked towards the door, intending to grab Isabela and tell her, when the pirate herself had entered his room, none of her usual swagger present.

Varric hadn't even commented on her eavesdropping, simply looking at her for a moment.

"Time to grab Blondie and Daisy?" He'd suggested.

Isabela had nodded.

"No need to get Aveline's smalls in a twist just yet – they _could_ have just ran away for a few days," she'd said, though they both could hear the doubt there.

They'd collected Anders and Merrill – deciding it was best not to mention anything to Hawke's family, Aveline or Sebastian until there was real cause to worry – and had headed for Fenris' home, Isabela briefly retelling her conversation with him the last night anyone _knew_ the pair were still in Kirkwall.

As Bodahn had said, the mansion was empty, with only one set of recent footprints in the thick layers of dust in the foyer. Even the main room upstairs – the one Fenris lived in – had only the dwarf's prints, and the cold air of a place unlived in had already encroached from the other areas of the mansion.

When the group began looking closer, they started to worry. Anders recognised magic scorches on the floor and walls; Isabela and Varric found splintered, blistered craters in the table and floor, possibly from mauls or hammers. Merrill found the blood.

A small stain, mistakable for wine at first, in a dried-out puddle on the floor. Then other, smaller drops – sprayed against the wall, across the table.

By the time the four had left, everyone was visibly shaken, even Isabela.

"It definitely wasn't like that when I left. And I saw _no one_, Varric, not one person when I left. If I had, I'd have gone straight back in, long-overdue making up be damned, and warned them..." she said, a trembling arm around Merrill's shoulders as the young elf sobbed, her huge eyes magnified by the tears in them.

"It's not your fault, Isab-" Varric started; only to be cut off by a distraught wail from Merrill.

"Why would anyone want to do this to Hawke, or Fenris? They've never hurt anybody! Well, they have, but not- not, I mean-"

"We know, Daisy. No one should have been able to do this. We'll find them, if they're not already out of trouble and on their way back to Kirkwall this minute," he'd said, trying to keep a supportive look on his face. From the unusually grave look Merrill gave him, he realised that she didn't believe him anymore than he did, but she appreciated the effort.

They'd pulled themselves together and split up to inform the others – Isabela going to Aveline, Merrill to Sebastian, Anders to Gamlen (Varric wouldn't let him go near the Gallows without Hawke there to act as a deterrent) and the dwarf to Bethany.

Within an hour, everyone except Gamlen and Bethany – either drinking away the shock and grief or locked in the Gallows – had gathered at Varric's suite, all demanding the full story and, in Aveline's case, why she hadn't been informed immediately. She'd been only slightly mollified when Varric had reasoned that if it had been a false alarm, she would have been worried for nothing, which could have impeded with her job.

"Rivaini and I only waited to get Daisy and Blondie in case there was an ambush waiting for us, otherwise we would have gone straight there ourselves," he'd explained.

"I suppose that makes sense," the guard captain had muttered eventually, before they'd all descended into speculation on what could have happened and who was responsible.

After five hours, and several into the next day, Varric had thrown himself back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and staring at a point on the table to try and convince them to focus again.

"I just don't get it. If that magister was still around, I'd pin it on him. He's certainly got the money and the resources, but the Elf took care of him. We all saw that," he said, looking in particular at Isabela – who'd jumped straight into the fight when it broke out – and Anders, who grimaced at the memory.

"Even if it was him, why take Hawke too? He was only ever after his runaway pet," the mage grumbled, trying to sound more like he was quoting the magister than agreeing with his assessment. From the varied looks he received from around the table, he'd not succeeded very well.

"A hostage? She got in the way? Or for status – she's the Champion, for Maker's sake. Even outside of the Free Marches, that's not something to underestimate," Aveline suggested, the almost permanent shadows under her eyes prominent now, her gloves long discarded on the table as she rubbed at her face again.

Isabela sighed loudly, dropping her boots from where she'd kicked them up onto the table, falling to all four chair legs with a resounding thud.

"Look, this is getting us nowhere. Resources or vendettas or not, that wrinkly old bastard's dead. We're wasting time thinking about him," she said firmly, to everyone's reluctant nods and mumbles of agreement.

"Rivaini's right. Who else do we have, the sister?" Varric asked. The theory had already been chewed and regurgitated like cud several times now, but they kept bringing up the same topics in the hope that something new would strike them.

"Pathetic. Whiney. No resources, no reputation, no respect. She couldn't have done it by herself, mage or not, and if Fenris had to send _her_ money to bring her here, then unless she was an extremely popular part-timer at the Rose, she wouldn't have had the cash to buy the number of mercenaries necessary to take those two down," Isabela said immediately, ignoring Aveline's muttered comment on her get-money-fast theory.

"You never know. Magic can balance even the most drastic odds," Anders countered, more on principle than anything.

"Sweet thing, did she _look_ particularly competent to you? She cowered by the wall and squealed during the whole fight. I don't think she's capable enough to organise a violent kidnap like this." Isabela shot back with raised eyebrows, waiting until Anders lifted his hands in surrender and sat back, even his feathers seeming to deflate.

"So it's not Fenris' sister, we can agree on that. How about the Magistrate?" Sebastian asked; his normally neat hair stuck up at odd angles from the number of times he'd ran his hands through it.

"The murderer's father? Could be. He's pretty high on my list, anyway. I'd just think that he would have tried something earlier than this. It's been, what, five years now? That's a long time to get revenge, especially without even small token attempts before hand," Varric mused, running a hand over his stubble in thought. "I dunno though, I've just got a feeling that it's not him. Like we're missing something,"

"But what? We searched everywhere in Fenris' house, Varric. We can't have missed anything," Merrill asked, her tone oddly sharp with desperation for the usually hare-brained elf, even though she was weaving in her seat from exhaustion.

Varric shrugged.

"I don't know, Daisy," he said softly, "I really don't."

They all subsided into an uneasy quiet, until Aveline sat back with a decisive sigh, reaching for her gloves.

"Well, we've talked in circles for hours now. I say we all go home, sleep if we can, then start fresh tomorrow morning. I'll ask my guards if they saw anything odd on patrol last night." She said, tugging the gauntlets on as Varric nodded, sitting up at last.

"Good idea. I'll get hold of my contacts tomorrow, collect on my many outstanding favours. Someone must have seen something in this place."

"I'll ask mine, too. I can ask at the Rose, as well." At the disbelieving stare this earned her from everyone, Isabela sighed and rolled her eyes. "The workers hear far more than you'd think. There's not much in this city that goes on without them knowing about it." She explained with exaggerated patience.

"I'll notify the Grand Cleric also – she may have heard a key confession in the past few days, or she can spread the word amongst the congregation that if anyone has information, to speak to her or myself." Sebastian volunteered.

"Well, let's hope she takes a more active stance in this than she has in the mages' plight," Anders muttered, loud enough to be heard by everyone.

Sebastian merely met the mage's challenging gaze evenly.

"The difficulty with the mages is not illegal, Anders. The abduction of two Kirkwall citizens – one being the Champion, no less – is. Elthina will act,"

While Anders huffed and Merrill volunteered to try asking her fellow elves about anything unusual they had seen, the others all stood, stretching and leaving with subdued 'goodnight's.

Three months, hundreds of contacts, and nothing except that a ship had _possibly_ left the harbour the night that Hawke and Fenris had disappeared, and that an old man, a foreigner, had been seen in the area earlier in the day. The foreigner was probably Danarius, so Varric dismissed the information. The rest of it told Varric a couple of things, however.

Whoever was responsible was obviously highly organised, highly motivated, powerful, and keen not to be seen. That meant that they were aware of the fallout if it was known _who_ had abducted the Champion of Kirkwall.

It was as he was about to head to bed after another frustrating day when he heard pounding footsteps on the stairs.

He had enough time to grab Bianca warily before Isabela burst into the room, wide-eyed, fuming, a letter clutched tightly in her hand. She paused only to glance at the forgotten pile of mail before letting loose a stream of curses picked up from years at sea, diving at the papers and disregarding Varric's irritated yell, scattering them across the desk and plucking one from the mess.

"You _stupid_ man, of all the days to _not read your mail!_" She ranted, shaking his letter in his face.

"Rivaini, what in my Ancestors holy underwear is so special about my mail?" He asked, batting away her hand, trying to avoid a black eye. He froze, however, at three words.

"Hawke and Fenris."

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

Arcanum:

Fenris: You, boy, have you seen Hawke?

Boy: Who?

Boy: Ah! Yes, she walked that way. Returning supplies.

Hawke: Do you need anything, Vasilia?

Qunari:

Shanedan = a respectful greeting.


	13. Chapter 13

Hey everyone, here's chapter thirteen! This will be the last chapter until my deadlines are done (I'm sticking to my promise of no more chapters until they're finished now). To make up for that, this is (I think) the second-longest chapter so far. Since I need to do a lot of work today, but I don't want you guys to wait for an already completed chapter, I've literally just finished this and posted it, so if anyone spots any errors, please let me know so I can correct them after my essays are done.

**Warning****:** there is a fair bit of gore in this chapter, along with a mild reference to mature content that may disturb some readers.

As always, thanks to everyone who reads this fic, and to those who review, I love all your feedback. Although there's definitely some notable events in this chapter, if things go to plan, the next chapter should see the catalyst for many of the events in the rest of the fic. I think you'll see what I mean when chapter fourteen is done. For now, I'll let you get on with thirteen. Hope it's a good one :)

* * *

><p>The training had gone about as well as could be expected. Hawke had lasted for three and a half hours before her legs gave out and she collapsed in an inelegant heap, swearing and nearly hyperventilating she was so out of breath. Fenris had offered to stop at three, since it filled requirements, but after Hawke had tricked him into revealing that he had the rest of the day off, along with the heavy implications from Danarius that he was to spend most of that time training her, she had reverted to the incredibly stubborn woman he had previously glimpsed and insisted on doing more.<p>

So, true to her word, she'd kept pushing herself until her body had drawn the line and dropped her unceremoniously to the ground. It had been briefly amusing, Fenris thought, even with Hawke's exhausted whimpers of 'ow', but they both soon realised that Hawke would not get back to the slave quarters under her own power. Since she had point-blank refused a stretcher, Fenris had become her crutch, helping her limp heavily away, both of them ignoring the guards' howls of laughter even though Hawke had turned as red as the band Fenris wore underneath his gauntlet.

He'd left her on her pallet with an enslaved mage Hawke seemed to know and strict orders for the mage to not only heal any muscle tears Hawke may have, but to encase the rogue's legs and arms in ice for ten minutes to help with healing. Hawke had gaped at him, beyond words, but Fenris had merely shrugged and left, only daring to give her an apologetic look before he turned away. Slaves weren't allowed to use the baths – they had to make do with buckets of water and a towel – but the trainee guards often resorted to ice baths after their monthly intensive nine-hour drills. The slaves weren't the only ones worked to the bone in Tevinter, but at least the guards had full rights to luxuries such as baths and real beds.

It was only late afternoon, and Danarius was still in his workshop, the door and walls securely warded. Fenris had only been in there once, when he first woke up, and had never been permitted to enter it again once he'd been carried out on the first day he could remember. It was only brief, delirious snatches of lying horizontal and the walls moving past him – he'd later figured out he'd been carried out on a stretcher, but at the time all he had seen were those flashes of imagery. The walls; scorched and stained. The doorway, several inches thick with a door to match. The corridor's bare, plain ceiling giving way to the grand halls of Danarius' quarters. His own cell of a room, nothing more than a pallet, wash basin and armour stand.

Taking advantage of the rare opportunity to eat more than a sparse breakfast and whatever scraps had been set aside for him late at night, Fenris headed for the slaves' galley.

The only people present were the cooks, rushing about their jobs and chattering amicably. Fenris did his best not to draw attention to himself – ignoring the subtle decrease in the volume of voices when he entered the large stone room. He grabbed one of the less bruised apples and a scrawny chicken wing from the table of food left out for the slaves before quickly leaving the room, deeply uncomfortable with the stares prickling the back of his neck and the hushed whispers.

'_I may be a slave, but I am not one of them,'_ he reflected mildly as he wandered into the courtyard, the wing almost gone already. There were only three or four measly bites on it, even when he stripped the bone clean.

Tossing the bones aside for the scavenger birds to pick over, Fenris leant against one of the shaded walls – not to avoid the sun, but to avoid scrutiny. He'd found that if he stayed in the shadows, people tended not to notice him, despite his white hair and the markings. Since he didn't want to be noticed by most of the household, the trick suited him just fine.

The apple was gone in less time than the chicken, its core also thrown to the small flock of birds screeching over the bones. The small snack hardly made him feel full, but hunger was no longer twisting his gut into knots.

He didn't pay the woman striding from the main doors much notice at first, initially dismissing her as another slave until the sun glinted off a ripple of silk, catching his eye.

Silk robes. A mage, then, and free. Wealthy enough to be able to wear silk in such hot weather and not have to worry about staining the delicate material with sweat. There had been no meetings with other magisters today, Fenris knew – he'd fallen into the habit of scanning the day's events in Danarius files when he carried them – so could this be Danarius' apprentice?

Fenris knew Danarius wouldn't want him looking at the mage – the magister had gone to great lengths to withhold their identity from him, for some inexplicable reason. The urge to look away or close his eyes was...compelling.

The wry voice in his head that sounded a bit too like Hawke snorted in amusement. That woman was a bad influence, he was sure of it.

Even so, Fenris didn't look away.

The apprentice was an elf, her red hair held up in a neat bun, clearly showing her elongated ears. She was pale, as though she'd spent little time outdoors in the relentless sun. Noble-born, perhaps?

He couldn't see her face clearly; she'd already marched past him, towards a small carriage waiting for her. Her posture was stiff, as though annoyed. In response, Fenris felt his own shoulders tense, his eyes narrow and his fingertips digging prominent trenches into his arm, the skin threatening to break against his gauntlets until he forced the digits to relax.

Fenris watched from the shade, utterly still, as she stepped into the carriage and the horses pulled away, only stepping away from the wall after the sound of trotting hooves had faded.

Still sticking to the shade, Fenris headed back inside, intending to see if Danarius had left his workshop, and to try and shake the odd feeling of resentment that stuck with him after seeing the elvhen mage.

Why he would feel angry towards her, he didn't know. He'd never seen the woman before, after all, and though he had the impression Hawke disliked the magisters, he doubted her influence would affect him this much.

Although...could he be sure he hadn't seen the mage before? In fact, he thought with a leap of forbidden excitement in his gut, it would even make sense – Hawke had told him that Danarius didn't want Fenris to know about the Ferelden slave's existence, in case it brought back any memories. Couldn't that be the exact same reason why Danarius was keeping his apprentice from him, as well?

So perhaps this burning that verged on hate was a memory in itself. As usual, there were no links, no images or sounds, just the feeling.

It was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. They didn't even fit into the void of time before he woke in his Master's workshop; despite his pushing, all he could uncover was the pain. It was as though he had experienced the sensations for the first time when he remembered them – except for the odd, marrow-deep certainty that they _were_ memories, and not his imagination or strange bouts of déjà vu.

Master Danarius still hadn't returned when Fenris arrived at the study, so the elf paced for a moment, impatient, before deciding to follow orders and do something constructive with his time.

He retired to his own room, more like a cupboard in Danarius' quarters. The magister's bedroom was at the end of a corridor, with Fenris' room the only other door or window in that hall. His little cupboard had two doors, one of which led directly into Danarius' bedroom and was kept open at all times. It was a safety measure against the more traditional assassination attempts of breaking in with a knife in hand; if Fenris heard so much as a window latch clicking, even in his sleep, he could be awake, armed and in Danarius' room within seconds. Danarius had tested his response time repeatedly in the first few weeks; he'd pay an assassin to perform a drill; breaking in through the window in Danarius' room and seeing how quickly Fenris could enter to defend the magister. Even on the first drill, Fenris had woken at the sound of the window being unlocked, intercepted the man before he'd taken two steps into the room and had very nearly beheaded him on sight. It had only been Danarius' intervention that had saved the shaken assassin.

With a sigh, Fenris removed the sword from his back, but instead of setting it aside, he sat on his pallet and laid the blade across his knees, reaching for the whetstone, cloth and bottle of oil he used to maintain the onyx blade.

Cleaning and sharpening the blade did little to occupy his thoughts, though it did serve to calm him slightly.

Deciding to ask Hawke about the magister's apprentice the next time he saw her, Fenris did his best to put his thoughts of the mage aside.

Unfortunately, thinking about Hawke at all had been a bad idea. Now that he had time to think and evaluate his actions, he found he was lingering over that kiss.

Quite what had possessed him, he had no idea. He was also struggling to care about his possible leave of sanity, until he remembered Hawke's paranoia about Danarius finding out anything about them.

A small frown crossed his brow. Hawke wouldn't be that worried without reason – the penalty for her even speaking to him must be high, so if Master Danarius learned that they'd kissed – twice, actually – then it was feasible that his punishment would be even harsher, for both of them.

Yet she'd kissed him the second time, so...where did that leave them? Had she simply decided to take the risk, or had she suffered a similar suspension of reason?

He didn't even know how he was meant to interpret this...could it even be called a relationship?

Fenris grimaced, bowing his head and kneading his brow with his bared knuckles, eyes squeezed closed.

Two kisses; and he was a bewildered wreck.

Shaking his head, Fenris set his jaw and went back to sharpening the greatsword, purposefully trying to drive the thoughts out of his head. He could confront Hawke about it later, find out exactly what they were to her, but until then it would be pointless to dwell on the matter.

Fenris had cleaned and sharpened his sword and fully maintained his chest plate by the time he heard Danarius' footsteps and the resounding _tap_ of the butt of his staff against the marble floor.

The additional sound wasn't reassuring – if Danarius was using his staff as a support, he was tired, and most likely in a foul mood. Fenris winced before slowly rising to his feet, taking a second to stretch his back before taking his sword from its stand and shouldering it, leaving his chestplate behind on its stand. He couldn't see this report going well – when Danarius wasn't happy, he would make an excuse to beat the first slave he came across, deserving or not. As Fenris was often the slave closest at hand, he frequently bore the brunt of Danarius' rages.

When Danarius was a few feet away from Fenris' room, the slave opened the door and stepped out, standing with his head bowed until the magister had passed before falling into step behind him.

When Danarius slowed and raised a hand, Fenris automatically stepped forward to brace the magister and support him as they continued down the hall. The mage was shaking faintly, his arthritic hand trembling even inside Fenris' steady grip. Mild exhaustion from over-exertion, he guessed.

The magister's voice was soft and thin with weariness when he spoke, but he hadn't lost any of its coldness.

"Why aren't you training?"

"Hawke and I trained for three and a half hours, Master, and would have done more if she hadn't collapsed. I had to force her to stop; otherwise she would not be able to move tomorrow. I helped her back to the slave quarters and left her with one of the slave mages and instructions for Hawke to be ready to train again tomorrow. I hope I did not overstep my bounds, Master," Fenris murmured, carefully helping Danarius around the desk in his study and lowering the mage into the chair. The magister sat with a long sigh, almost a groan, resting his staff against the desk before leaning back in his seat. The tiny wave of his hand was the only indication given or needed for Fenris to tug off his gauntlets and begin kneading the man's shoulders through the layers of elaborate robes.

The magister grunted in relief as Fenris found the raised, knotted muscle immediately, driving his thumbs into the tension and working it out, starting off relatively gentle until most of the pain had abated, then building up the pressure to try and release the knot.

Danarius relaxed for a few seconds, simply enjoying the luxury, before sighing and beginning to speak again, sounding vaguely lethargic now that his pain was being eased.

"So, other than collapsing, how did our little Champion do? Has she retained any skill?"

Fenris was quiet for a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully.

"I do not know how accomplished she was in the past, Master, but the skill she showed today was remarkable. Her only real faults seemed to be poor muscle tone and stamina. I think the first week or two will be difficult, but once she builds up some strength, I doubt she will have any problems in doing as you asked." He was careful to keep his tone neutral; only mildly assessing. He couldn't let Danarius know he knew Hawke outside of this one training session. Not having to look at the magister's face made lying easier.

Danarius gave a low, displeased grunt.

"The perfect pupil, is she?" He muttered; sounding thoroughly irritated that there were no faults to pick on that he himself hadn't caused. When Fenris remained silent, Danarius sighed and shifted. "I suppose she was eager to get her hands on a weapon again?" He said heavily, as though hoping to find something to criticise.

Fenris slowed his kneading for a moment as he shrugged.

"I couldn't say, Master." _Liar._ "She seemed more surprised than excited. We didn't speak much, other than for her to request more suitable clothes for fighting, and for me to inform her how much training she would be doing." The best deceptions were built on truthful foundations. Fenris hoped that the two lies would be masked by the truths surrounding them.

"Hmm. And you have never spoken before today?" The magister tossed the question out so casually, Fenris actually took a breath to answer honestly before he caught himself and turned the noise into a consternated sigh, furrowing his brow in false thought as he silently berated himself.

"No, Master, not that I am aware of. I didn't recognise her, but there are many slaves in your ownership. Should I have done?" He asked, allowing some anxiety to enter his voice, hoping Danarius would take it as intended – the worry he had unknowingly displeased his master – instead of the fear he would be caught in a lie.

There were several heartbeats of silence, during which Fenris forced himself to keep his hands carefully manipulating the base of the magister's neck, to not betray his nerves.

Finally, Danarius' shoulders lifted in a response.

"No, pet, you shouldn't." His words may have sounded as though he believed the lie, but his tone was soft, dark. Fenris had to still a foreboding chill from tickling his spine, and purposefully avoided swallowing what felt like a dry, hollow obstruction in his throat.

Odd, how differently fear felt when it was subtle.

Danarius straightened in his seat, Fenris reading the action as an order to cease his kneading and backing away a few steps as the magister rolled his shoulders and head on his neck.

"You do have the most wonderful hands," he sighed, and Fenris relaxed slightly, relieved that the subject was allowed to changed, but flinching mentally at Danarius' choice of topic. Having the magister musing over his body – his markings in particular – was often discomforting; and Fenris dreaded where such one-sided conversations lead.

"Come where I can see you, pet, I didn't design you as you are only for you to hide from sight," Danarius said, Fenris hastening to walk around the desk and stand before the magister, consciously wiping his expression blank.

Danarius sat back, eyes only half open. He was too pale, Fenris thought. Possibly anaemic from the hours in his workshop – Fenris had felt the thick, new scar on Danarius' wrist when he'd helped him down the corridor.

"It's been a long day, pet. Is there anything else you have to add before I retire?" He asked, his voice almost a sigh.

Mentally allowing himself to contemplate relaxing, Fenris hesitantly dipped his head in reply.

"Just one, Master. Hawke is a competent fighter, and capable of making progress, however..." he paused, trying to think of the least accusatory way to phrase his request. "I am...uncertain of how much progress she can make on her current diet. Would...would it be possible for her to have a small portion set aside, as is done for me?" Danarius remained utterly silent, his body stilling, and though his eyes were unreadable, Fenris knew he had overstepped the oscillating boundary of the magister's patience. "I only ask so that we can fulfil your wishes completely, Master," he all but whispered, his head bowed, already bracing himself for the fury he could feel silently building in the mage's chest like a thundercloud.

"You are...dissatisfied with the woman's diet?" Danarius spoke quietly, his surface calm utterly unnerving.

Fenris felt as though even his scalp was pressing closer to his skull in an attempt to draw into himself and protect himself from the mage sat before him. Standing whilst another sat was often considered intimidating. Danarius had easily turned that on its head as Fenris struggled against the impulse to hunch into himself.

"Only with regards to her training, Master. I would not care, nor even think to trouble you with it otherwise. I've displeased you, Master, I'm sorry," he said, his voice as quiet as his master's, but tight and rapid with fear. Fenris stared at the floor, unable to even look up at the threat.

Danarius gave a long, disappointed sigh.

"I had hoped this impertinence would have been stripped from you when I enhanced your markings. Unfortunately, that woman seems to corrupt your deplorably weak mind with even the least bit of contact." Fenris' eyes widened. It was the first direct allusion to this being the second ritual he had endured, and to knowing Hawke before it, that the magister had given, but the revelation was rapidly swept away in the struggle to control his panic.

"Master-" He had no further chance to voice his alarm – Danarius' open hand gleamed blue, and the air rippled outwards like the ground wave of a gaatlok explosion. The wall of compressed air slammed into Fenris' chest before he had time to brace himself, lifting him off his feet. He thudded into the far wall, breath torn out of him, skull cracking against the granite wall.

He fell down the wall, feet scrabbling numbly for the floor, staggering when the tip of the sword caught on the ground first and pitched him forwards, landing on all fours when he tried to catch himself.

There was ozone and copper under his tongue and at the back of his throat, a simultaneous tautness and lightness to his muscles, his scalp prickling as his hair tried to stand on end.

Fighting instinct demanded that he ignore his discomfort and get up, defend himself, _attack_, but a slave's instinct held him down, curling into himself on the ground, arms rising to protect his head when the magister walked around his desk, staff in hand.

When Danarius was this furious, this impatient, he didn't wait for a whip to be handed to him.

The staff was a cruel-looking thing, closer to a mace than a piece of wood. Fenris had once seen it used to cave a man's head in when he'd spoken out against the magister. One of the new slaves, unaccustomed to obedience. He hadn't had a second chance to learn it.

He tried to huddle against the wall, but Danarius seizing the hilt of the greatsword on his back and dragging it away pulled the dazed elf forward until the blade slid free and clattered to the ground. Without the spine of metal, Fenris' back felt too vulnerable, too exposed. He couldn't even consider rolling onto his back to protect it – he'd left his chest plate in his room, and though the enchanted leather armour may be marginally resistant to cutting, it was utterly ineffective against blunt attacks.

The first blow hit the back of his left shoulder, one of the malformed protrusions on the staff punching into the bone. Fenris, usually silent even in pain, screamed as his arm flooded with sickening numbness before falling limp.

Each successive strike, even those furthest from the damage, sent a wave of pain rippling through to his injured shoulder, the slightest movement wracking him with nausea, low, keening cries dragging out through his teeth.

On the seventh, he felt a rib break. He couldn't breathe.

Danarius' own exhaustion saved him. By ten strikes, he was breathing heavily, arms shaking.

"Get out," he rasped. Fenris, his breathing quick and shallow, slowly shifted his good arm away from protecting his head, tried to push himself up. The pain that swelled from his rib nearly made him collapse again; instead he froze, good arm trembling with the other draped across the floor, trying to lessen the pain, not even daring to breathe.

Danarius only saw agony as disobedience.

"You useless piece of knife-eared _filth_," he snarled, his free hand seizing a chunk of Fenris' hair and half dragging the elf towards the doorway; Fenris scrabbling, the pain blinding and silencing him as he tried to support his torso.

He reached out blindly when Danarius shoved him away, trying to catch himself before he hit the corridor floor. The shock of impact that ran through him cut into his consciousness; he dropped to the floor, senseless, until the clatter of metal beside his head roused him. His sword lay next to him, discarded as he had been. Fenris couldn't see the door, nor the magister, he could only hear his voice as though at a distance.

"If you want your little obsession to have more food, pet, you can share your own with her. Now get out of my sight."

Fenris didn't even know if the thud that followed was the door closing or his own heartbeat.

Eyes closed, he tried to draw some strength from the cold floor, some awareness of the blood trickling across his ribs and shoulder on the inside of his armour.

It would be easier just to lie here, wait for someone to find him – or for someone not to.

Slowly, Fenris turned his head, pressing his forehead against the ground, trying to draw a deeper breath, but not deep enough to hurt.

No. He couldn't lie here and allow his injuries to take him.

Where to go? His own room would be as good as staying here.

A healer. Someone to take the pain away.

The memory of the little red-haired mage sat next to Hawke, her expression horrified, drifted into his mind.

Hawke. Just get to Hawke.

His right arm moved, sliding out from underneath him to his side, bracing against the floor. Gradually, he propped himself up, his attempts to move carefully not sparing him in the least. His legs followed, folding in underneath him.

Slowly sitting back, gagging on the pain, Fenris released a haggard breath, his good arm wrapped around his ribs to try and support them. He was kneeling, at least.

Crawling on three limbs – the hop as he moved his remaining uninjured arm forward – would cripple him. He had to stand; walk.

He opened his eyes, looking to see which wall was closest.

The right one. Danarius hadn't been able to push him far.

Still, it was out of reach.

Risk the agony of crawling to it, or try and stand where he was, without using his arms?

Or...his sword was right beside him. He could use that as a crutch.

Metal scraped against marble, Fenris balancing the blade against his good shoulder to manoeuvre it onto its point.

Using it for balance more than an aid – the sword was too unstable on its point to bear his weight – Fenris coaxed his legs into unfolding, slowly propelling him upwards, eyes once again closed in concentration.

Even that controlled motion was torturous – not quite the full-blown suffocating agony as the beating had been, but just teetering on the edge of it. Fenris held his breath until he was stood, more or less, biting back the pain. Holding still allowed him to carefully release the air in his lungs, the stretch of his ribcage nearly paralyzing him.

Feeling oddly cold, yet as though he were sweating at the same time, Fenris opened his eyes again to take his first step towards the wall.

He dragged the point of the blade, too weak and wracked with pain to lift it, outwards, just enough space to take a single step before following it.

He couldn't decide which hurt more: walking or breathing.

Three steps and nearly thirty seconds later, Fenris slumped against the wall, limbs shaking, the fingers on his good hand tingling as though with pins and needles, like when he hadn't ate in three days and was weak with the lack of food.

The exit to Danarius' quarters was down the long, main corridor, the route to the slave quarters three times that length and packed with guards and slaves that would get in his way or question him or – if the guards were in a sadistic mood – trip him.

The door to the slave passages was just a few metres away.

If he collapsed there, it could be hours before anyone found him.

Fenris already suspected a damaged lung, at least. If one of the guards pushed him, his broken rib could puncture it again, or hit his heart.

He'd risk the slave corridor.

"If he ever tells me to freeze my arms and legs again, I'm going to steal that over-sized sword of his and hit him over the head with it. Repeatedly," Hawke muttered, huddled on her pallet, still in her training clothes, wrapped in the thin blanket and her dress, shivering.

"If it helps you to recover faster, Serah, then isn't the discomfort worth it?" Fayth asked curiously. Hawke just stared at her until the girl faltered, uncertain.

"Serah?"

"You try freezing yourself for ten minutes, then tell me it's worth the benefits," Hawke growled, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

What rankled most was that Fayth was right. Frozen as she was, her muscles didn't ache as much as they had when Fenris had dragged her into the slave quarters, and she was fairly certain she could walk if she tried.

Damn that elf.

"Isn't there a spell or something that can rebuild lost muscle tone like _that_?" Hawke asked, trying to click her fingers, a soft rasp the only result.

Fayth smiled as Hawke scowled at her treacherous hand, shaking her head.

"I'm afraid not, Serah. Otherwise none of the guards would have to train to keep their strength up."

"Hmph. Yet despite all their training, they're as good at fighting as my uncle is," Hawke said. Fayth stared at her, uncomprehending, until Hawke elaborated with a small grin.

"My Uncle Gamlen is a drunken, gambling sot who knows less about sword fighting than he does about being sober, which for him is quite the feat," she said as Fayth giggled.

That was when the door masquerading as a wall at the back of the room staggered open, and Fenris pulled himself into sight, one arm hanging limp at his side.

For a second, Hawke froze, unable to do anything but stare as he limped away from the door.

Then the paralysis broke and she dropped both blanket and dress, launching to her feet and rushing to his side. Ignoring the stunned looks of the other slaves, she took hold of the arm holding his sword, moving to reach her left arm around his middle, stopping when he made a low, inarticulate sound of protest that rasped in his chest. Instead, she wrapped her arm low around his back, just above his hips and let him slump against her shoulders, his sword dropping out of his hand to clatter against the stone floor.

"It's alright, Fenris, we're almost there," she breathed as they staggered over to her pallet, Fayth reaching to help steady him.

"Let's lay him down," Fayth said, hesitating when Fenris shook his head, blinking heavily as though struggling to focus.

"Not on my back," he said. When Fayth glanced at Hawke, uncertain, Hawke nodded and shifted her grip on him.

"Can you kneel down, Fenris? You can lean against me, it's alright," Hawke asked, fighting to keep her voice calm and regulated, even though fear was whitening her face and making her hands shake.

When he nodded, Hawke carefully turned to face him, instructing him to lean against her as she slowly knelt, her own tired muscles shaking but resolute. Fenris followed, his legs folding more out of exhaustion than control.

As soon as he was kneeling, Hawke now able to gently lower his good arm to his side as he slumped against her, his head resting on her shoulder, Fayth's hands glowed blue and she began passing them over his back, her brow furrowed in concern.

When her eyes widened, Hawke had to bite the inside of her lip to stop from demanding to know what was wrong.

"I'll need to see his back; he's got two breaks at least and I want to see if either has punctured the skin. Some things are easier to heal when you can see what's wrong, not just feel it," Fayth said, waiting until Hawke had nodded and started working on the clasps on the front of Fenris' tunic before turning to call one of the other slaves over. Though Hawke didn't pause in her task, she listened with building dread as Fayth dispatched the young man to run for more healers from the infirmary wing.

"Fenris. Fenris, I need you to take your good arm out of your tunic. It won't hurt the other one as much then," Hawke said, pulling back to try and look the elf in the eye. He seemed dazed, barely rousing when she spoke to him. After a few shortened repetitions, he blinked and managed to shrug his right arm free, allowing the tunic to slide off the injured arm.

Facing his back, Hawke heard Fayth gasp, and struggled not to lean around him to see the damage for herself. She was more concerned with how listless he seemed.

"Fenris, can you tell me what happened?" Hawke asked as Fayth set to work with slightly too much haste to reassure the other woman. She was about to repeat herself again when Fenris nodded, opening his eyes wider with difficulty and taking as deep a breath as he could manage.

"Master Danarius..." he started, voice slow, taking another breath before he continued, "didn't appreciate...me asking for mo...more food for you." When he found the energy to lift his eyes to hers, she looked distraught.

"Fenris, you shouldn't-"

"It needed to be done," he gasped out on one breath, his good hand grasping hers the only motion he could manage to silence her.

"Serah, these aren't whip marks. Something heavy did this," Fayth said, her small face grave. Fenris' breath out was slightly more pronounced than the others – the closest he could get to a laugh.

"He used...his staff," he said. By the way Hawke's eyes widened and her body went still, Fenris knew she remembered what the mage's weapon looked like.

Her hand tightened on his; it would have been uncomfortable if the rest of him wasn't in so much pain.

She didn't say anything, merely let him rest his head against her neck again and looked down at his back, her right hand running through his hair in a soothing repetition, her left lying in his. When she saw his back, her left hand convulsed in his again.

"That _bastard_," she whispered; her voice tight with fury. "That vile, evil piece of _shit_." It wasn't just her hands that were shaking; her voice did too as she looked at the blooming red marks all across his back, some accompanied by vicious, bleeding scrapes or shallow holes in the flesh. There was an unnatural lump on the back of one of his left ribs, the ridges visible at a glance in a way they hadn't been in Kirkwall. The bloody puncture in his left shoulder joint was as thick as her thumb and, from the glint of white inside, just as deep. Blood was smeared all down his left side from being compressed by his armour.

Fayth shifted uncomfortably, but didn't dare open her mouth to contradict the older woman; despite the furious, helpless tears the mage could see lining her eyelids. Fenris' head shifted slightly on Hawke's shoulder, as though he was trying to look at her but too tired to move any further. He jerked abruptly, a low growl trapped in his throat as his rib grinded and snapped back into place.

"I'm sorry, Messere Fenris," Fayth murmured, before her gaze shifted nervously to Hawke's over the elf's shoulder. The other woman didn't even look at her, instead staring at the smooth progression of his ribs where the break had been.

"I-" Hawke cut herself off, instead burying her mouth against his good shoulder, not daring to speak as her huge eyes roved, unblinking, across the ruined plain of Fenris' back.

'_I'll kill him.'_ She could think it. _'I'll kill him for what he's done to you.'_

Fenris' shallow breath ran across the back of her neck, bringing with it the realisation of how slow it had become.

"Fenris?" She asked, as he whispered against her neck.

"I'm cold."

Hawke pulled back just enough to meet his eye, and the look he gave her said he knew something was wrong if he was concerned enough to voice his discomfort, even through his daze.

Fresh worry rising up out of somewhere in her chest, Hawke slid the hand in his hair down to the back of his neck, then around to his face.

Cool. Clammy.

"Fayth..." The mage was already nodding; brow creasing again as she searched his damaged body. She'd been reconstructing his ruined shoulder, but moved outwards now, until she paused over his left lung.

She glanced up to meet Hawke's eyes, mouthing silently '_internal bleeding_', her eyes widening.

Hawke felt her own face greying, her hand returning to Fenris' hair as she tried not to show her own fear.

Three rushing footsteps approached from the slave passage, admitting the runner Fayth had sent and two women, one human, one elvhen, both holding staffs.

The two sped up considerably upon seeing the three kneeling on the ground, wasting no time to discard their staffs and raise their blue-lit hands to the elf's back as Fayth whispered what she had found.

'_There's no point in whispering, he can still hear you,' _Hawke thought, but couldn't find the words in her throat. She settled for turning her head to look at him again, shifting to try and disperse the pins and needles in her own legs.

His eyes were closed, his breathing too light even though it rattled wetly in his throat. Beneath the tanned skin, he looked pale. Grey.

"Fenris? Fenris, open your eyes for me," she whispered, her voice high with stress, squeezing his hand. His eyebrows tightened slightly, but he didn't wake up.

"Fenris," Hawke said, sharper, louder, releasing his hand to grab his wrist, shaking it slightly. She didn't dare move him more in case she disrupted the mages' work.

The elf murmured something incoherent, but it was a response. Hawke felt her breath rush out, the worry sitting in her chest lifting hopefully.

"That's it. Come on, Fenris, look at me," she urged, her right hand moving from his hair to his face as Fenris' eyes rolled down under their lids before opening to look at her, his pupils slightly unfocused, but aware.

"Good lad," the new human healer surprised Hawke by commenting in accented but clear Common. She was middle-aged, too thin like most slaves, but had laughter lines in the corners of her eyes. What anyone had to laugh about here, Hawke didn't know, but she was grateful for the older healer's calm, cheerful tone. Oddly, the healer reminded Hawke of her father when he'd fixed Carver's broken arm – keeping the young boy distracted with cheer and encouragement.

"Almost done now," the woman continued, her only sign of stress a faint crease between her brows. The two other mages were focusing intensely, but when Hawke dared to look over Fenris' shoulder again, what looked like a bright blue bruise was flickering under his skin, darker strains twisting and fading as the three healers repaired the tear in his lung. One of the newer lines of lyrium wound over the blue area, the vein burning blue-white, but going its usual silver at the boundaries of the pool of magic.

When all three mages relaxed, Hawke knew they'd fixed the tear.

"Well, that was a tricky one," the older woman commented brightly, her hands moving up as the younger two mages started on his numerous bruises and cuts. "Now let's see this shoulder of yours..."

Finally allowing herself some real relief, Hawke bowed her head against Fenris' good shoulder for a long moment before turning to look at him, her left hand rubbing up and down his right arm, trying to inject some warmth back into the limb even though her own hadn't long since regained sensation.

"Feeling any warmer?" She asked softly, watching his exhausted eyes as they focused and opened properly for the first time. His colour looked slightly improved, though he still lacked the healthy flush that would reassure her completely.

"A little. It is good to be able to breathe again," he said with the barest smile, his voice hoarse. Hawke managed a weak laugh, raising her eyebrows in helpless agreement.

"I imagine so," she whispered, her eyes darkening with the memory of his closed eyes, unresponsive. She glanced up at him again, mouthing three words carefully so that none of their bystanders could hear.

'_You scared me_.'

She watched as his eyebrows lifted, then furrowed slightly, his eyes sliding aside from hers, rounding and suddenly becoming vulnerable.

'_I'm sorry,_' he mouthed finally, glancing back to her. Hawke gave him a small smile, her hand sliding down his arm to squeeze his hand. After a moment, his fingers curled around hers.

They sat quietly as the healers finished working on Fenris' back and shoulder, moving only when the lead healer, as Hawke had come to think of her, told him to sit up straight and began to gently move his arm in the socket. Fenris sat and allowed his arm to be manipulated, though Hawke could tell he wasn't entirely comfortable. He dutifully answered the healer's questions on pain or tightness and his range of movement, but sat back in relief when he was released and the healers stood, ready to leave.

"Now, try and rest that arm, if you can. I know it may not be possible with your position, but try. If you're going to do any training, make sure to do a full, gentle warm up. Magic can fix bones and torn muscles, but it doesn't make it as though the injury never happened. Take elfroot potions every four hours, if you need it, for the pain and to help lower inflammation. Your shoulder and your ribs are going to be tender for a few days, so for the Gods' sake, try not to work them too hard."

Fenris sat and nodded as he pulled his tunic on again; the faintest line of tension in his forehead that Hawke identified as irritation at being fussed over. Hawke found herself nodding along with him, fully intending to make sure he did as instructed. She had a suspicion the healer had guessed as much, since when she finished her speech, she gave Hawke a conspiratorial glance as she pressed the small pouch of potions from her bag into Fenris' hands. Hawke just smiled at her, before the two slaves still sitting on the floor thanked her, Fenris awkward but sincere, Hawke heartfelt. Fayth left with the other two healers, stating it was her turn on shift, leaving the two in the slowly filling room as darkness fell.

For several seconds, they sat in a silence hovering between comfortable and awkward until Hawke noticed Fenris' eyes glazing and starting to slide shut against his will.

With a soft touch to his arm to gain his attention, Hawke tilted her head slightly at the ground.

"You're exhausted, Fenris. Shall we get you back to your room, or do you want to stay here for the night?"

His eyes opened fully at _that_, she noticed with a flicker of sorely-needed amusement.

"I- no. It is a...generous offer, Hawke, but I should be getting back. I have disappointed Master enough for one night, I think," he said with a grim smile that faltered when he saw Hawke's expression soften with sadness.

"What is it?" he asked, pausing in his preparation to stand. Hawke glanced aside, not in avoidance this time, but regret. With a silent nod, she indicated they should move to the slave passage.

Curious, Fenris held his tongue until he had risen stiffly to his feet, collected his sword – Hawke stealing it out of his hands and sliding it into place on his back so that he didn't have to – and they were both several metres down the cramped corridor, its door closed behind them and no one to overhear them.

When Hawke made no move to elaborate, Fenris reached out for her arm, slowing them both to a stop.

"Hawke...?" He waited as she reluctantly lifted her head, turning to face him fully in the small space, apparently completely at ease with standing almost chest-to-chest with him. When she lifted her eyes to his, there was an unusual vulnerability in them that surprised him to his core. He'd seen her anxious, panicked, scared even, but not this strange fragility.

Yet...wasn't that expression familiar?

"I just...I hate that after everything he's done to you; you still have no problem calling him 'Master'," Hawke murmured, shaking her head and glancing down at the admission, missing Fenris' confused hesitation as he stumbled out of his musings and back into the conversation, finally recalling his initial question.

He shifted, caught up with what had been said, but uncomfortable.

"It is who he is," he said, trying not to sound apologetic and failing. Hawke looked back up at him sharply, that conviction he'd seen once before returning, her vulnerability gone.

"No. He is a man, Fenris, nothing more, and actually a lot _less_. Nothing gives him, or any other magister, the right to own another person, be they elf, human, dwarf or Qunari."

"If they don't have the right, then why are we here?" Fenris asked; frustrated at not understanding a concept that was foreign to him.

Hawke sighed, her energy flooding out of her.

"I don't know, Fenris. I'm tempted to blame the magisters, and the Imperial Chantry for letting them control the Imperium, but...was it the magisters that started slavery, or just obscenely rich people, mage or not? It's too long ago to tell. I just know that it is wrong, Fenris, and it is only Tevinter's separation from the rest of Thedas that allows it to continue."

Hawke's abrupt return to solemnity cooled his own aggravation, and he simply stood for a moment, studying the tired, lonely woman in front of him.

Hesitant, he reached out a hand to lightly touch her elbow, growing bolder when she didn't shrug him off and gently sliding his hand up her arm to her shoulder, a wordless gesture of support. She gave him a tired, resigned smile and patted his hand briefly in thanks before straightening, as though to continue down the passage.

"Hawke?" She paused again, a questioning tilt to her head.

"Thank you, for earlier." He turned slightly to gesture back down the corridor, and into the past.

Hawke smiled, shaking her head lightly.

"I only propped you up, Fenris. You're welcome for that, if that's what you mean,"

He shook his head, however, one hand – his left, Hawke noticed, restored to working order – lifting silently in gesture, completely serious in the face of her light tone.

"Not quite. You kept me conscious, even when I wasn't aware of anything else; touch, sight, even the pain. I could...hear you. Not the words, but...your voice was something to focus on, to keep me grounded." He was nervous, his eyes darting over their feet, but then he lifted his head to meet her eyes, his own blunt with sincerity. "Thank you for that."

They both stood for a moment, neither speaking, until Hawke stepped forward with a deep breath, her arms slipping gently up and around his neck, her chin resting on his shoulder as she hugged him. It was odd, not having his breast plate digging into her chest, having warm muscle instead of cool metal.

'_I promised myself I wouldn't keep doing this,'_ Hawke reflected with a bittersweet, resigned smile. Yet if he was content to run the risk of being with her despite Danarius' orders, she wouldn't deny them that.

Fenris hesitated, taken aback, but slowly returned the gesture; his arms settling around her back, the point of his chin lying in the hollow behind the line of her shoulder bone. It still felt strange, this novelty of holding someone and being held in return. He remembered idly that he'd intended to talk with her about their...something of a relationship, but now that they'd reached this pause, he found weariness seeping into his muscles and his mind. His shoulder and ribs ached as though in agreement.

'_That is a conversation for another day,'_ he decided, tilting his head fractionally when he felt Hawke's breath rush in to fuel her voice, her arms loosening, her body pulling back slightly, the insulating hush of the moment starting to dissipate.

"We should be getting you back. You must be exhausted after today," she said, releasing him except for one hand; her fingers squeezing it tentatively until he returned it, nodding in silent acceptance.

Hawke accompanied him to the end of the slave passage, her hand linked loosely with his. Neither of them dared to be seen together, much less after hours near Fenris' room, so she bid him goodnight and released him before he opened the door. He paused outside it until he heard the quiet click of the latch sliding into place before walking the few metres towards his room.

He couldn't help but notice, now, how little time it had taken him to traverse the passage and reach his pallet. It had taken him more than half an hour to complete a ten minute journey with his injuries.

It was with an aching sigh that Fenris finally sank onto his pallet, laying on his right side to spare his shoulder, ribs and back. Though the bruises were fully healed, his back had taken up a faint tingling, as though it were too sensitive. Not quite unpleasant, but he didn't want to find out what lying on it would do.

Usually it took Fenris a long time to relax and finally find sleep, but that night, it took him only moments.


	14. Chapter 14

Hi everyone, I'm alive! And I am _so sorry_ for the long wait. I've had the worst case of writer's block on this chapter for over a month. When I was doing my uni work, I planned out this chapter in detail, since I couldn't write the thing itself. After my coursework was done, I took a (desperately needed) week off writing anything. Then, when I came back to write this chapter...nothing. It was worse than pulling teeth, trying to write even a paragraph of this. I think because I'd planned it out so much, I had no motivation to actually _write_ the damn thing. However, I finally, _finally_ got the breakthrough I needed a few days ago, and I've since hammered this out to the point that I've had to split it into two chapters, it was becoming so long. This means that not only are you getting chapter fourteen now, you should be getting chapter fifteen either later today or in the next few days, which will hopefully make up for the wait.

I know that last chapter I said that the catalyst for future events would become clear in this one, but due to the split, you'll be getting that across chapters 14 and 15, however I've realised in hindsight that you'll only be able to identify the catalyst once you've seen the results of it, so...yeah, when a few more chapters come out, things should become clearer haha.

Anyway, now for my usual: I've actually read through this a couple of times, but I still may have missed things, so feel free to give me feedback/corrections if you spot anything. **Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything.** As always, you are all wonderful, and I hope you enjoy this very belated chapter!

* * *

><p>Although physical exhaustion dragged her to the brink of sleep quickly that night, Hawke couldn't stay relaxed for long. Each time she grew close to drifting off, an image of the bone glinting at the bottom of the pit in Fenris' shoulder would dart into her mind, shocking her awake as reliably as a bucket of ice water.<p>

She could hear birds singing through the high windows before she finally fell into a deep sleep that only seemed to last a blink before someone was shaking her awake, telling her to hurry or she'd be late.

Feeling as though she may as well have stayed awake all night, Hawke slowly sat up, groaning as her sleep-deadened muscles protested.

"I shouldn't have insisted on that extra half hour yesterday," she explained when the slave who'd woken her asked what was wrong.

Enansal laughed, but managed a sympathetic 'aww' as Hawke manhandled her uncooperative limbs into her clothes, wincing the whole time.

"I saw Master's bodyguard helping you in. Was it really difficult?" The elf asked, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her truncated left ear. It was a ragged cut, leaving Enansal's ear roughly the same size as a human's, but severely misshapen. Hawke hadn't felt it prudent to ask what had happened, and Enansal had never volunteered the information. Hawke had a feeling, however, that it had been a punishment of some sort.

"Not difficult, really; I remembered how to fight, my ability was still there – I just couldn't train for very long. I was exhausted after one hour, but I did three and a half. I pushed myself too hard, and now I'm paying for it, that's all," she said with a grim smile as she tugged on her boots.

Enansal shook her head, simultaneously sympathetic and impressed.

"I wonder why Master wants you to fight? The only other slave allowed a weapon is his bodyguard," she said as Hawke stood.

"We were wondering that ourselves. Maybe D- Master Danarius wants _two_ bodyguards," Hawke said lightly, offering the giggling elvhen woman her hand. With a grateful look, Enansal took it and hauled herself to her feet, before resting her hands on her heavily swollen belly, smiling.

"You really shouldn't be sleeping on the floor when you're this far along," Hawke said, trying to strain some of the disapproval out of her voice.

"Well, where else would I sleep? A bed?" Enansal laughed again as though the concept was too ridiculous to contemplate, before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter. A few more weeks, and I'll be able to get up off the floor by myself again."

"Oh, I wouldn't count on that. To listen to my mother, you'd think she never left the bed until the twins were sleeping through the night, she was so tired. She said the night-time feeds nearly killed her!" Hawke said, as she and Enansal set off into the estate, both of them laughing.

"Oh, I don't think I could cope with two! I'd never get any work done." Though her tone was light, Hawke noticed it was slightly forced. Although slaves were permitted to have children, if the mothers weren't capable of working and caring for the child at the same time, it was common practice for the children to be sold, either to other estates or to the Crows. That was the main fear of any slave mother.

"Mother complained that she couldn't get her housework done, but then she realised she could leave the twins with me for an hour or two without anything going drastically wrong, so she got to do her cleaning, and I got the job of babysitter," Hawke continued, smiling, tactfully not commenting on Enansal's unspoken concern.

She only felt mildly guilty about the lie she'd told. Her mother had never had to worry about the housework, since Father had taken over the cooking and cleaning quite easily when Leandra could no longer see her toes over her stomach. Despite the hectic first few months with two infants in the house, they'd managed, and Hawke had only ever had to look after her siblings alone while her father was working, and her mother shopping for food. However, as so many children in slavery were born after a guard or magister ordered a woman's compliance, the topic of fathers was simply never brought up. As proud of Malcolm as she was, Hawke didn't want to casually mention him when it could remind so many other people of a memory they would rather forget.

The two split up at the doors to the courtyard; Enansal shuffled off to the kitchens, while Hawke stepped out into the blinding glare of the rising sun opposite her, only just sitting on the wall of the estate.

Shielding her night-sensitive eyes, Hawke headed over to the well in the courtyard and, squinting slightly, grabbed one of the buckets stacked next to it, tied the loose rope around its handle and dropped it down. In the north-eastern corner of the courtyard, the resident blacksmith was getting an early start, shuffling around his workshop and starting to light the forge. It was repairs day for the guards' armour, it seemed.

Able to see again, but stifling a yawn, Hawke began the laborious task of hauling up the full bucket so that she could damp dust and mop the rooms of the East Wing. Not only did she have a whole day of cleaning to look forward to, after that there would be three hours – Hawke wasn't going to be stupid like yesterday and try to show off by doing extra – of training with Fenris. Although she was glad of any excuse to see him, the prospect of training when she would already be tired from working wasn't a pleasant one.

'_At least we won't be sparring in the middle of the day,'_ she thought, casting a grudging look skywards at the rose and orange lights lingering as the sun climbed higher. If she'd been forced to train for three hours during the heat of the day, she'd either drop dead from heat stroke or lose it entirely and try to gut Danarius the next time she saw him.

With another wince at her too-stretched muscles complaining, Hawke pulled the bucket up onto the wall of the well, sighing as she unknotted the rope.

Idly, she wondered what she would be doing now if she were in Kirkwall as she trudged back inside, bucket in hand.

'_Sleeping. Definitely sleeping.'_ The only time Hawke woke up this early back home was if they had a long job ahead of them that day. Otherwise, she preferred spending a respectable amount of the morning in bed.

Instead, she was rooting around in a supply cupboard for a mop, a scrubbing brush and a cleaning cloth, her stomach constricting itself with hunger because Danarius' slaves weren't allowed to eat until they'd done at least an hour's work.

Although the West Wing was the only one open to Danarius' guests, and thus had to show off as much of Danarius' wealth as possible, the East Wing was by no means sparsely decorated. It was the East Wing that had the main kitchen (the slaves' food could not be prepared in the same kitchen as the magister's dinner), the dining room, the drawing rooms, Danarius' study, workshop and personal library, and all were as elaborate as the areas of the estate the public _did_ see.

Altogether, Hawke and five other slaves had eight rooms to dust and mop, plus the corridors linking the Wing. The job would take the five of them the whole morning and half the afternoon, counting in the time taken to hurry back to the galley and bolt down breakfast, along with the numerous trips back outside to empty the dirty water into the gutter and collect more.

Clamping down on the yawns that kept trying to stretch their way out of her throat, Hawke met the other five cleaners at the entrance to the East Wing and they set to work on the first room – Danarius' study, so he could use it later without disturbances – with a grim enthusiasm; eager to get it done so that they could eat.

Although Hawke had already learnt to despise cleaning – not that she'd ever enjoyed it much in Kirkwall or Lothering – she quite liked doing Danarius' study. He had a bad habit of leaving his papers scattered about at night, knowing they would be left in a tidy pile on his freshly-dusted desk the next morning. While most slaves, being unable, unwilling (or both), to read, simply shuffled the pages together and left it at that, Hawke took the opportunity to scan what pages she could without being too obvious about it.

In the two times she'd cleaned the room previously, Hawke had learned that Danarius had several connections to the Antivan Crows throughout the city and surrounding area, owed another magister money after a bet gone sour (a few days after, Danarius and Fenris had gone out for a trip around the city. The next day, all anyone could talk about was the duel between Danarius and the magister he'd owed money. Needless to say, Danarius no longer had a debt to pay), and had been invited to the wedding of another magister's daughter to an Orlesian noble.

Today, Hawke bustled around the room, scavenging the papers from various locations – the desk, the small table by the bookcase, the windowsill, the fire's mantelpiece, quickly glancing through their contents before dropping them into their ornately carved wooden tray on the desk, purposefully out of sequence and with the odd page up-side down so that Danarius wouldn't know someone who could read had been riffling through them.

Most were simply accounts from Danarius' house steward – one of the few _servants_ in Danarius' employ, who lived outside the estate – documenting the house's income and export prices, guard shifts and suggested promotions, and what looked like a few pages from a paper Danarius was writing on the properties and uses of lyrium.

Casting a dark glance at the gleaming black rock with its lyrium veins masquerading as Danarius' desk, Hawke dropped the papers into their tray, sparing a thought only for the second one as she began damp-dusting the smooth onyx.

It was the official invitation to Feynriel's masquerade, naming both Danarius and a 'Lady V. Libertini' as guests.

'Lady V. Libertini'...that must be an associate of Danarius'. But wouldn't they simply address another, individual invite to her? Unless she was Danarius' apprentice...

Wait. 'V'. Apprentice.

'_He was going to make me his apprentice.'_

Libertini. Liberty. Liberated...from slavery?

'_...when you won, you used the boon to have Mother and I freed...'_

'_I would have been a magister.'_

"Hawke?"

The woman jumped at the sound of her name, turning around to see Sabain watching her, mild concern masked by his usual indifference. It was only then that Hawke realised she'd been staring at the same spot on the desk, motionless, for several seconds.

"You alright, girl?"

"Yes," Hawke said quickly, with a small, breathless little laugh, briefly putting her hand to her head. "Just felt a bit dizzy. I'll be fine after breakfast." She gave the older man another bright smile and went back to dusting, waiting for his low grunt of dismissal to signify him turning back to his work before she dropped her small smile and let her mind wander again, her arm moving mechanically over the desk.

So, unless 'Libertini' was a perfectly normal family name, and the 'V.' was a coincidence, it seemed Varania had received her wish after all.

Hawke hadn't even spared the woman a thought since the elf had ran out of the Hanged Man's door, not even to wonder if she had been stranded in Kirkwall or had returned to Minrathous. Of course, she must have returned with Danarius, on the very same ship Hawke and Fenris had been on.

Idly, Hawke wondered if Fenris had known his sister was on the ship. Possibly – Danarius may have wanted to taunt Fenris before his memories were erased. She doubted he knew about her now, though – if Danarius didn't want Fenris to see Hawke in case she triggered the bodyguard's memories, he wouldn't want the warrior's treacherous sister skipping around in sight of him, either. Still, Hawke made a mental note to ask if Fenris had ever seen Danarius' apprentice before as she set to work on the legs of the desk.

As expected, completely cleaning Danarius' study alone took the slaves over an hour, after which they hastily dumped the grey water in the buckets before bolting for the galley and their breakfast.

It was quarter to eight when they refilled their buckets and returned to work, this time on the excessively huge dining room. By half nine, they had split into pairs to tackle the three drawing rooms. It was at ten o'clock that Hawke, on the way back from refilling her bucket, saw that Danarius' study door was ajar. The magister must be awake and fed, then.

Depositing her bucket in the Ruby drawing room, Hawke darted into the other two to inform the slaves in a hushed whisper that the master was awake and in his study. They all rushed to finish the drawing rooms, before converging on the workshop to get it clean before Danarius wanted to use it.

It was a stark room; bare of any unnecessary furnishings. There was a single, packed bookcase, a few cluttered counters and cupboards, and his workbench, eight feet by five, right in the middle of the room. An irreparably stained gutter surrounded the table, the repeated spills of blood darkening the stone and its metal grating.

There was a lot more blood caked in the gutter and over the workbench today, Hawke noticed. The stench of day-old blood still lingered, seeping in to the back of Hawke's throat as her fellow slaves went pale. Vasilia, a young girl not yet out of her teens, gagged.

Hawke was the first to set to work, more accustomed to the smell of blood and gore than her companions, though even her expression was tight with disgust. Someone had died in here yesterday.

She silently took on the task of cleaning the gutter after seeing what looked like chunks of flesh caught in the grate, leaving the others to wash down the workbench and the counters, along with the tools scattered across them, and replace the books on their shelves.

Hawke scrubbed quickly, wanting to leave the room as soon as possible. She paused only to poke what looked like a strip of artery down the drain, its soft texture oddly reminiscent of dough or clay, only it sprang back into shape when compressed. The much stronger, oddly distinctive smell of internal organs made even Hawke want to retch, even though she breathed through her mouth.

As she slowly made her way around the table on her knees, scrubbing every inch of the gutter, the rogue couldn't help but envisage Fenris on that slab, the lyrium being carved into him again and again...

It was yet another reason for her to want to leave swiftly.

When they had finally made the room as clean as it was going to get, considering its almost daily use, the six of them emptied their buckets down the gutter in the room – it made the trip to the well easier, and it should wash down anything stuck in the gutter so that it didn't start to rot and smell. If it did, they'd simply be ordered to remove it themselves later.

With a quiet groan as her abused knees and back protested, Hawke stood and stretched, trying to convince her body that it didn't want to stay stooped.

Sighing and conversing in whispers, the slaves moved gratefully out of the workshop, taking care to close the door behind them.

Splitting up, three of them continued on to the library to begin tidying away the books while the others went to refill their buckets, Hawke among them.

The door to Danarius' study was fully open this time, and no sound came from the room. Empty, then.

Hawke spotted the magister and his ever-present shadow in the courtyard; Danarius addressing the captain of the guard, his voice rising over the sound of pounding metal from the forge while Fenris stood by and watched. Two guests stood at Danarius' side, listening to the captain whilst watching his men's drills, apparently impressed from the looks they shot each other.

She found herself studying the elf carefully as she absent-mindedly tied the bucket to the rope, searching for any sign of lingering pain after yesterday's beating. He was holding himself a bit stiffly, hunching slightly more than usual, perhaps, and Hawke could see the deep purple-black bruising in the gap running along the spine of his tunic, but he seemed relatively healthy. He was shifting on the spot the way he normally did when he was bored, brushing the sole of one foot against his opposing ankle to remove a stone from it, shooting frequent glances over his shoulders. He didn't turn quite as far when looking left, and Hawke could see a slight tightness in the muscles of his face when he tried, but he managed a quick nod in her direction when he spotted her.

He turned back to face the magister before Hawke could do more than meet his eyes, however; the image of the attentive bodyguard as Danarius concluded his business with the captain and waved his fellow magisters towards the mansion.

"Hawke."

The rogue started, spinning round to look at Sabain with wide, questioning eyes. The man gave no comment on her distraction, instead simply tilting his head towards the estate's doors.

"We're done here. Time to get back to work," he said, hefting his own bucket slightly in emphasis. Vasilia was holding her own with both hands, her thin arms taut with effort but not quite shaking.

Mentally scolding herself for preoccupation, Hawke lifted her own bucket and trailed the other two, resisting the urge to shoot glances at Fenris as the two groups steadily converged on the entrance.

Normally, she might have noticed the young girl's persistent fidgeting with the handle of the bucket. She would have realised Vasilia was struggling to carry it, and that her constantly shifting grip was a warning sign.

Focused on Fenris, and on trying to distract herself from him, Hawke only paid the movement in her peripheral vision attention when something plummeted. Even months of slavery hadn't trained the warrior's wariness of sudden movements out of her.

Her head jerked up right as the bucket thudded to the ground, landing hard on its corner before toppling to its side, the water first splashing, then flooding outwards.

At any other time, it would have been a minor mishap. With Danarius and his guests only a few steps ahead and jumping out of the way of the rushing water, however, Vasilia was fully justified in going as pale as the flagstones beneath their feet.

Not really processing what she was doing, Hawke grabbed the girl's shoulder and dragged her back, shoving her own bucket of water into the trembling arms and stepping in front of the teenager. The faint shock at the noise of wood hitting stone was rapidly being replaced by real adrenaline as the magisters looked up from the water spreading across the stones and dappling the hems of their robes.

"Watch what you are doing, you stupid girl," he snapped, before turning to apologise to his guests in Arcanum.

The man waved it off, saying something Hawke couldn't quite make out with a bland smile on his face. Her only warning was Fenris' back stiffening, Danarius laughing, and then stone was gathering around the visiting mage's hand and shooting out towards her.

From Fenris tensing, she had enough time to grab the girl's arm and sling her sideways towards Sabain before the stone fist slammed into her stomach and she flew backwards, crashing into the ground. The sharp pain in the back of her skull and the screaming friction grazes on her back were not enough to distract her from the fact that her stomach hurt far less than it should, and had given an odd, metallic _thunk_ when the rock hit it.

From the sudden silence from the small crowd, they'd noticed as well.

'_Oh, shit,'_ she thought, trying to gulp air into stubbornly empty lungs, struggling to push herself into a sitting position as she heard Danarius' swift footsteps approaching.

His hand seized her arm – wrapping all the way around her bicep – and hauled her halfway upright as her legs struggled to keep up and support her.

His free hand went straight to her stomach, and clearly felt the rigid shield behind the wide belt stretching from her hips to the base of her sternum.

Internally wincing, Hawke kept her face as emotionless as possible as she felt Danarius freeze, and stared stubbornly at a flagstone as his hand slid behind the belt and grasped the rim of the plaque, refusing to show her revulsion at the contact.

Slowly, with a sense of quiet revelation, Danarius drew the Amell crest from her belt. The small shield had a slight dent in its centre, and though it was a relief to no longer have it digging into her bruised, concave stomach, Hawke wished it was still hidden, pain be damned.

Distantly, Hawke could hear the female visitor laughing delightedly and babbling in rapid Arcanum, her tone inquisitive. Apparently she found a slave hiding something from their owner entertaining.

Danarius answered her, his tone light, but his back was to his guests so they couldn't see the mingled look of fury and a strange, twisted pleasure on his face.

He'd apparently sent the couple indoors, since Sabain took Hawke's bucket from Vasilia, who proceeded to lead the magisters indoors. As they went, Hawke thought she heard the woman mention a window – no doubt to watch whatever punishment Danarius dreamt up.

Rapidly coming to the conclusion that Fenris had been right to despise all magisters, Hawke stood silently as Sabain returned to cleaning at Danarius' brusque order, leaving just herself, the magister and Fenris by the steps of the courtyard. Danarius said nothing as he examined the crest closely, giving Hawke a second to risk glancing at Fenris. He was oddly tense, and purposefully avoiding looking at her, choosing to stare at the ground instead.

They both twitched when Danarius spoke; their swift glances at the magister assured them that he was still looking at the shield; now running an arthritic forefinger along the crumpled grooves left by the stone.

"Although I'm galled that you still defy me, Champion, I cannot help but be surprised at just how far you would go. You must have had this from the start. It makes me wonder what else you have been able to smuggle in," he said, voice managing to be mildly curious, yet soft with anger as he finally looked up at Hawke.

Taking the renewed use of her title as temporary permission to look her master in the eye, Hawke held his gaze and mentally listed the favour on Fenris' wrist and the two knives tucked into the back of her belt in utterly silent defiance. Her actual answer held a bitter edge, although she summoned up a rueful smile.

"If I had, _Master_, I would have used them on your guards when I first got here, instead of having to steal _their_ weapons," she said, purposefully regulating her breathing and tone to maintain her lie. Danarius said nothing for several moments, apparently weighing up her answer against what he already knew. Abruptly, he gave a low chuckle and a single nod.

"Perhaps you would," he said, lifting a careless hand to wave over one of the guards. It wasn't a concession; more an acknowledgement that at present he couldn't prove she was lying – and that he wasn't concerned about it.

Danarius sent the man off to fetch the whip, then turned to Fenris.

"Dispose of this for me, pet. The forge should do," he said, holding out the shield for the elf to take. The magister was watching Hawke for her reaction – a swooping sensation in her stomach, as though she'd missed a stair – so missed the odd look on Fenris' face as he glanced at the shield in his hands.

"Yes, Master," the warrior murmured, but his eyes lifted from roving over the crest's surface to meet Hawke's for a single instant. Then he turned away and headed for the forge, holding the crest loosely by his side and moving quickly now that Danarius was watching.

Hawke watched his back as he retreated, her heart giving odd little leaps. What had that look meant? For a moment she'd thought...no, he couldn't have remembered, surely?

'_He remembered the favour,'_ a hopeful part of her mind murmured. _'He's got to do what Danarius orders,'_ it continued, though that didn't ease the tense, painful little knot in her chest when Fenris reached the workshop, spoke briefly with the blacksmith over the worktop, then entered the smithy and bent close to the glowing coals of the forge. His long arm darted in and out again, and he straightened. When he turned back, his hands were empty.

Drawing in a deep breath, Hawke turned away, looking the magister in the eye and struggling to keep the disappointment and outright hatred off her face.

"Satisfied?" She asked quietly, her shoulders flickering with tension as she heard the booted footsteps of the guard approaching.

Danarius merely gave her a bland smile, turning as Fenris reached his side again, still standing oddly stiffly.

"I will be after your ten lashes, yes. Oh, and what is it you Fereldens say? 'One for luck'?" With a smile and a nod to the guard, Danarius turned and strode indoors, Fenris following, his head bowed.

As the guard led her over to the nearest wall Hawke walked a few steps behind him, dragging her feet so that she had enough time to slip the blades in her belt out of their hiding place and instead slide them down the sides of her calf-high boots.

She undid the belt – more like half a corset than anything – and bared her back; turning and bracing her arms against the wall. The whip only had a single tail this time, and she expected the sharp bolts of pain across her back. It was easier to stop herself shouting out than it had been on the ship, though that didn't stop the thin muscles of her back and arms standing up with the stress of staying silent.

She found herself silently counting each lash. It helped her cling onto her composure; knowing that the punishment is almost over.

The eleventh blow finally fell, and as the initial tearing, throbbing sting faded, Hawke allowed her trembling muscles to relax. Drawing in slow, steadying breaths, she gingerly laced up the back of her dress again and retied her belt as the guard ordered her to get back to work and walked off.

Ignoring the entertained calls from the other guards, Hawke straightened her dress, already feeling the blood making it stick to her back, and slowly bent to pick up the dropped bucket, returning to the well to refill it.

As she hauled the second load up, Hawke couldn't help but keep glancing at the forge, a pang of loss hitting her each time she did.

She knew Fenris couldn't have disobeyed orders, she knew he _wouldn't_ disobey them over something as trivial as an illegal memento, but some miniscule, bitter part of her couldn't help but resent him slightly for destroying the crest. What was it Fenris himself had said, as he'd made her take them back for safe keeping? _'I do not want Danarius to destroy these as though they're nothing...'_, but that was exactly what Fenris had done.

Hawke knew she was being unfair, and she tried to smother the acerbic little voice as she trudged indoors, her back twitching as blood trickled down her spine. Struggling to take her mind off it, Hawke made a small detour into the slave galley to see if they had any elfroot in the store cupboards to ease the dragging pain in her back. Chewing it wouldn't be anywhere near as effective as applying the juice to the wounds themselves, but it was better than nothing and Hawke had wasted enough time.

When Hawke caught up to the other cleaners in the East Wing, Vasilia came running over, already in tears and apologising. Hawke wearily waved her words aside, patting her back absently and mechanically summoning a smile. Vasilia didn't seem to notice the slightly forced facet of Hawke's smile through her tears, and returned a watery, more heartfelt version before Sabain called the group to order and sent them to finish work on the library.

When the others were busy again, he pulled Hawke aside and gave a small, pointed nod at her back.

"You alright to work, girl?" He asked, showing concern in his own gruff manner. Hawke sighed and nodded, putting on another brave smile that Sabain saw straight through but didn't question.

"I'll be alright. No point in not working when I've got training later, is there? I've had some elfroot anyway, so the pain's easing a bit," she lied in an undertone, shrugging then regretting the small shift.

The man gave her a level look that said he hadn't believed her, but then gave his own shrug and nodded in acceptance.

"It's your choice, Hawke. Just mind yourself so you don't make it worse," he said, waiting for her to promise she wouldn't push herself too hard before nodding and stepping away, letting them both return to work.

The rest of their working day was uneventful at best, though the ache in Hawke's back persisted throughout the next two and a half hours until the main kitchen was finally spotless and she'd deposited her cleaning supplies back in their respective cupboards.

After wolfing down a few paltry scraps of meat and bread and a glass of water, Hawke turned towards the training ground with a groan.

Fenris wasn't there yet, giving Hawke a few desperately needed minutes to rest in the shade of the wall near the training ring. She ended up sitting sideways on to the wall, leaning against it and facing left to spare her back the pressure.

As she waited, she looked at the grand, gilded gates, only a few metres away. To think, the way out of this Void-cursed trap was mere seconds away, if she ran. Climbing the gates would be easy, with all their intricate swirls. The guards were barely paying attention; they wouldn't notice or care if a slave wandered close to the gates, and it would take them several precious seconds to realise she was climbing them, and several more to grab ranged weapons or reach the gates themselves. By then, she could be over, down the other side and running.

Alone, though. She wouldn't have Fenris, and even when he arrived she wouldn't as much as _think_ of voicing such a plan to him. He simply wouldn't consider it, and would think her either mad or dangerous if she said anything.

Still, to have freedom there and not be able to take it was painful, and Hawke forced herself to look away.

It was almost half an hour before Danarius and Fenris reappeared, this time escorting the two guests out to their waiting carriage. As the horses pulled away, Danarius spoke a few words to Fenris and retreated indoors alone, leaving the elf in the courtyard.

Hawke watched as his shoulders slumped for a moment, his head rolling on his neck, then he straightened and glanced around the courtyard, idly scanning. His eyes passed straight over her for a moment, then jumped back. He squinted slightly, reminding Hawke that she was sat motionless in deep shadow, then his expression cleared in a moment of recognition, only to cloud over again. Hawke could tell from his awkward shuffling before he headed towards her that he felt uncomfortable, and as he came closer she could see the faint traces of concern on his face as he eyed her odd sitting position.

"Hawke..." he said as he stopped, only two steps from her, but hesitated, unsure of how to continue. "How...how are you feeling? After..." he fidgeted again and fell silent.

"Compared to the last time I was whipped, I feel brilliant. Without the comparison? Not so much," she said with a would-be cheery smile. She let him shuffle miserably for a moment, before chiding herself for being childish. This wasn't about the shield, so there was no point in punishing him for something he hadn't caused. With a tired sigh, Hawke dropped the false beam in favour for a weary, but more genuine smile and patted the ground beside her in invitation.

With a relieved slump of his shoulders, Fenris removed the greatsword from his back and leant it against the wall before sitting between it and Hawke, his face tensing where others would have winced.

"Shoulder still hurting?" She asked, eyes softening in sympathy as he eased into a more comfortable position. He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment against the pain before relaxing.

"It'll heal," he said heavily; his reaction to any injury he'd sustained over the years. Turning his head so that he was facing her, he nodded towards her, those familiar creases appearing in his brow when he was worried.

"And you? Your back..."

Understanding that he wanted a real answer this time instead of fake smiles and bravado, Hawke sighed and grimaced.

"Stings like mad, to make an understatement, but I'll live. I only had eleven this time at least; compared to last time, that was nothing," she admitted. Fenris tilted his head, curious.

"How many did you have last time?"

Hawke shifted; as close to a shrug as was comfortable, then leant in slightly so that no guards could overhear her.

"_We_ had fifty each. With a cat o' nines. Not very pleasant," she said lightly, though that didn't prevent the small, surprised start or pained way Fenris closed his eyes and bowed his head, a tense breath slowly sighing out of him.

"What happened?" He asked; an odd look of understanding in his eyes.

Hawke glanced away, gnawing her lip in thought. Danarius would _not_ want her to tell Fenris this. If hiding a memento earned her eleven lashes, what would directly disobeying one of Danarius' direct orders end in?

But...she had to start trusting Fenris at some point. In Kirkwall, she'd only started to earn his trust after she had trusted him. She had to do the same now.

With a decisive breath, she surreptitiously checked that the guards were occupied before quickly breathing her answer.

"We were encouraging a rebellion on the slave ship that brought us here. We were whipped, then isolated in separate cabins for the rest of the voyage," she said, watching Fenris' quietly stunned expression with grim patience.

"Rebellion?" He whispered finally, barely moving his lips. Hawke gave a solemn nod, but had no time for further reassurances. They both jumped at the loud bark of the guard captain.

"If you two are going to train, get moving before I report you to the magister!" The man glowered as the two glanced around at him then stood, obeying his order, albeit at their own pace. When they approached the ring, he grunted and turned away, back to his own men.

Their training wasn't as intensive as yesterdays; Fenris allowed them both a long warm up in light of their injuries, then they mainly worked on simple, repetitive stamina exercises. After being caught talking by the captain, they didn't dare speak much during training. He already might report seeing them whispering to Danarius, and they didn't want to give him further cause to involve the magister.

After an hour and half of this, however, not only was Hawke weary, she was bored.

Agreeing to a spar before warming down, the two grabbed their weapons – Hawke seizing the daggers again – and settled into their stances.

The rogue still felt utterly outmatched, and her back and muscles still aching from yesterday didn't help, but she noticed Fenris favouring his wounded left shoulder and took advantage of every opening it gave her. Fenris, in turn, exploited her slower blocks and reduced height she could raise her weapons; making her perform high blocks or parries that made her tired arms shudder.

They were more careful than yesterday, agreeing to take breaks before exhausting themselves rather than after. Yet during the middle of their third spar, when both were getting fully into the fight, Fenris sent one of Hawke's daggers flying out of her hand and across the sand and brought his blade round into a sweep she had to hastily block with her remaining dagger. While the blades clashed, Fenris leant in quickly under the guise of pressing her back.

"Can you meet me in the slaves' galley tonight, last bell?" He breathed quickly, before shoving her away and letting her spin right into an attack; they traded blows for a second before Hawke instigated a second lock, lasting long enough for her to hiss a soft 'yes' before they disengaged and fell back into the spar. Neither mentioned their whispered exchange for the rest of their training, nor when they split up at the end of it.


	15. Chapter 15

Hey everyone, here's what would have been the second half of chapter fourteen, if it wouldn't have turned the chapter into a 12,000+ word monstrosity.

Like it predecessor, I had a couple of problems writing this one, which is why it's a few days later than I thought it would be. But hey, better a few days than a few months, right?

A couple of things about this chapter. One, I officially hate Danarius, and would like nothing more to draw and quarter him, whilst repeatedly casting revive to keep him conscious. And that would still be too good for him.

All humour aside, the second is utterly serious and is about the end of the chapter.

*******PLEASE READ/TRIGGER WARNING: ** There are two line breaks in this chapter, not counting the one after this author's note. The first is a normal section break, but the second is to indicate the start of potentially upsetting content for some readers, and is to show them where to stop reading if they wish.

*********If you think you may be upset by a non-consensual scene, read with caution or stop after the second in-story line break.*****

Unrelated to the warning, there is also a few mentions of gore and serious injury in the start of the chapter, but in nowhere near as much detail as previous instances in the fic. Other than the start and the end, this is actually one of the gentler chapters, like chapter eleven (the scene with the ribbon). So with that in mind, I'll say enjoy, and thanks again to everyone who reads, reviews, or simply lurks and swears at the screen when I take too long to update.

**Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Hawke limped back to the slaves' quarters, hugging a bucket of water to her chest since she didn't trust her hands to keep hold of the handle. The cold water did nothing to ease her bruised and aching muscles, but she felt marginally better for being clean. Dinner was a single hunk of dry bread; the only food remaining after the other slaves had ate and turned in for the day. Instead of retreating to her quarters, Hawke sat by the fire again, relieved to be near something warm after the freezing water.<p>

It was just past ten at night; there was still two hours before last bell, but Hawke couldn't bring herself to move. Instead, she lay on her side in front of the fire, well used to sleeping on hard stone floors by now, and hoped to get a few hours sleep before Fenris arrived to make up for last night's restlessness.

Closing her eyes, Hawke couldn't help but be reminded of camping at Ostagar with Carver – they'd had nothing but bedrolls to sleep on, and had slept next to the fire. Seeing the ruddy light dancing on the backs of her eyelids with the hard ground beneath her, it was easy to think that she'd open her eyes, look across the campfire and see Carver sprawled out on his stomach, a few breaths from snoring. The only things missing were the feel of a light breeze, and the ambient sound of the wind hitting canvas tents, and low voices from soldiers on watch, or those staying up late drinking.

Despite the impeding battle, it had been peaceful, those last couple of nights. No more extensive training, no more scouting duty, no need to constantly be on the watch for Templars, or to be ready to run at the slightest indication their magic had been discovered. They'd both felt guilty about it, but they'd agreed that, for once in their lives, it was nice to just live like normal people. They wouldn't trade Bethany – or their father, if he'd still been alive – for anything, but having the constant worry lifted for just a month...it was a relief.

"I mean, when have we ever had this much time to ourselves before?" Carver had asked, slurring after his eighth mug of ale. "I love Bethy, and Mother and you, even if you drive me up the bloody wall at times, but sometimes it's just nice to have a break from all the magic...and hey, we get to kill darkspawn. That's a bonus, right?"

Hawke had just agreed, grinning, enjoying one of the rare moments when Carver wasn't being an ass simply for the sake of it. Carver had fallen asleep soon after; the drink making him almost impossible to rouse. The vague acknowledgement that anyone could die in the battle two days from then had been in the back of her mind, but she'd never really thought she or Carver would die. It had just seemed...impossible. Even during the rout, when Hawke had physically dragged Carver into the woods when the retreat was sounded and the darkspawn overran the army, then later on the run from Ostagar to Lothering. Even with both of them injured, it hadn't struck Hawke that either of them were remarkably close to death.

It had seemed unreal; some twisted Fade dream to see that ogre grab her brother and wave him through the air like an angry toddler with a toy, before dashing him against the ground. It was only when the creature was dead, Hawke's daggers still stuck in the beast's chest and everyone had ran over to Leandra and her son, that Hawke had realised that, yes, they could die all too easily. The ogre had barely exerted itself, yet Carver's chest was crushed, and the side of his head soaked through with blood and looking oddly soft; his skull having caved in.

Then watching his eyes open, his head turning towards her on his broken neck, his old, combative frown reappearing, and listening as he blamed her, asking why she'd let him run. Beneath his low voice, she could still hear her baby brother, the one with the skinned knees and missing milk teeth asking her the exact same thing, only sounding utterly lost beneath his adult anger.

"Why, sister? Why did you leave me? You're the oldest, you said you'd protect us; you should have attacked it instead-"

"Hawke?"

With a jolt, Hawke's eyes opened, staring uncomprehendingly at the fire for a moment, before jerking half upright to face where the voice had come from, her back giving a sharp pang that helped clear her head.

Fenris stood just inside the doorway, the door almost fully closed behind him, an odd look on his face.

"Are you well?" He asked, closing the door silently without looking at it as Hawke sank back down onto her side with a groan, rubbing her hands over her face.

"Fine," she muttered, her voice muffled slightly. "Weird dream, that's all," she sighed, dropping her hands and pushing herself into a sitting position, wincing slightly at her stiff muscles.

"Do you wish to talk about it?" He offered as he rested the greatsword against the wall again and sat beside her, moving as carefully as she had. Now she was pacing herself properly, she'd given him several decent bruises during training.

Hawke sighed and shook her head, waving a vague hand.

"It's fine; I've had similar dreams before. They don't worry me anymore," she said, giving him a half-hearted smile. "So, what did you want to talk about, this late at night?"

Fenris gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head ruefully.

"I apologise for the hour; I had to wait until Danarius had turned in for the night before I could meet you," he paused when she laughed, before reaching into the pouch on his right hip and drawing out a small, drawstring bag.

"Elfroot," he explained, pressing it into Hawke's hands. "It should help ease the pain," he said with a grim nod towards her back.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, looking down at the bag before briefly taking his hand in gratitude, glancing back up at his face. "You didn't have to."

Fenris shrugged, unable to deny what she said.

"There is a lot of elfroot stored in the barracks – they won't miss a few roots," he said, making her grin.

"Thief," she accused fondly, carefully tucking the small pouch into her belt.

Fenris found himself smirking in agreement. Another sentiment he couldn't deny, and it wasn't as though stealing from the guards was stealing from the magister. Although he enjoyed their short bouts of teasing banter, he was keen to move the conversation on to why he had come to see her.

"But you asked why I wanted to speak with you?" He prompted, bringing her attention firmly back to the matter at hand. "In truth, I wanted to ask you something," he said, waiting for her small tilt of the head to indicate he should continue. "You remember telling me about those card games? Wicked Grace and Diamondback?" He asked, and she nodded, a small crease of confusion between her eyebrows now. Fenris bit his tongue to stop himself from grinning. "Tell me, do those games require any sleight of hand?"

Hawke blinked, utterly bewildered by now.

"Only if you're cheating, which is pretty much the point of the games," she said, deciding to wait and see if Fenris would get to the point on his own.

The elf nodded, as though she had confirmed a theory, idly unbuckling his right gauntlet and bracer, freeing his hand and revealing the red band tied around his wrist.

"In that case, I believe you when you said I could play, since otherwise..." he paused, reaching up underneath his chest plate with only a little difficulty. Hawke frowned in suspicion when she heard the distinctive clunking scrape of metal on metal. "...it would have been rather difficult to hide this without being seen," Fenris said, finally managing to draw out a small kite of metal with gold gilded edges, and a distinctly crumpled red pattern in the centre.

Hawke stared, speechless, at the Amell crest Fenris held out, reaching to take it back with gentle hands.

"Fenris...how did...I _saw_ you put this in the forge," she said, sounding dazed. Fenris shook his head, smiling.

"I hid a horse shoe underneath the shield when I was speaking to the blacksmith, and picked it up with the shield when he turned away. I threw the shoe in the fire, and hid the shield under my armour," he explained, ridding himself of his other gauntlet and bracer, then unbuckling his chest plate and setting it on the floor with a sigh of relief, rubbing his chest where the shield had been digging in all day. He was sure there would be a bruise there later.

Hawke shook her head slowly in disbelief, bowing her head to look at the shield again to partially hide the ridiculously happy grin spreading across her face.

"Thank you, Fenris. And thank the Maker Varric taught you how to play Wicked Grace!" She said, her voice lifting and hitching with a laugh as she glanced up at him again, looking oddly shy as she peeked through her hair.

"You know, it's strange how you can remember doing things, but not how you learnt them," she mused, idly running a thumb over the mangled pit in the shield. Fenris nodded, shifting uncomfortably.

"I've often thought the same. My mind must forget, but my muscles cannot. How else would I be able to act as a bodyguard just days after waking up from the ritual?" He said, glancing briefly at the sword leaning next to the fireplace. When he looked back, Hawke was shaking her head, looking speculative.

"But if it was just muscle memory, then you wouldn't remember how to read, or all the languages you know. It seems to me like Danarius' ritual removes your memory of your senses – you don't remember seeing or hearing any instructor, nor any smells or sounds that would link you to the place you learned them. You can't remember names or faces, because you can't remember seeing that person or their name written down, or hearing their name spoken. Danarius can't remove anything you've learnt – just everything associated with it," she said, frowning in thought.

Fenris sighed, shrugging.

"Regardless, Hawke, I cannot remember even the simplest of facts. Not your name, not even my own," he said, with a faint note of surprise. He'd never given real thought to what his name was; he wasn't even sure that Fenris _wasn't_ his real name, except...just an odd, niggling feeling. 'Fenris' was who he was, but not who he'd always been.

He glanced up to share this revelation with Hawke, but paused upon seeing her darting eyes and her teeth peeking into view as she bit her lip.

"Hawke," he said flatly, already reading the signs. She winced and looked at him, as though she was considering pleading innocence until she saw his expression. With a sigh, she deflated, shoulder sagging.

"Danarius would turn us both to cinders if I told you," she muttered defensively, and Fenris nodded, accepting that as why she hadn't told him before.

"Neither of us will tell him, and I _need_ to know, Hawke," he said, silently urging her to break her rules again, though expecting her to clam up and turn away again. It was what she'd done so far, but in these past few days, he'd hoped she had come to trust him more.

She was staring at the ground again, gnawing her lip, but her eyes were steady this time, calculating instead of panicked and darting all over the floor.

Finally she nodded to herself and met his eyes.

"Leto. Your- you were called Leto," she said, her eyes slipping away from his again. Thankfully, he either hadn't noticed or had disregarded her slip. She'd nearly blurted out 'your sister called you Leto'.

'_Idiot,'_ she berated herself, but studied Fenris in concern. He was staring blankly at the far wall, a troubled expression on his face, his lips twitching as though he were whispering under his breath.

"Fenris?" She ventured tentatively. He lifted a hand up, asking for quiet, but his frown became more pronounced.

After several minutes however, he gave a sudden sigh and shook his head, rubbing his brow wearily.

"There was a name, I think. Something to do with 'Leto'...it began with a 'V'? I can't be sure," he said, the disappointment seeping into his voice.

Hawke took advantage of his momentary distraction to make sure her expression showed nothing but concern. She couldn't tell him about Varania – she couldn't risk him seeing her around the estate and having the name click with the face and accidentally reveal to Danarius that he knew her. She hated lying and holding back such an important part of his past, but this time it simply wasn't worth the risk. If he remembered Varania by himself, however...surely that could only be a good thing?

"I'm sorry, Fenris," she said softly, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. He lifted his hand; not pushing her away, exactly, but waving the sentiment aside.

"It's fine, Hawke. It is simply frustrating, nothing more," he insisted, refusing her sympathy as he usually did. Hawke didn't believe him, but she didn't argue.

They lapsed into silence, Fenris staring into the fire, thinking, Hawke giving him the time he needed while her own thoughts tumbled through her mind. Although she couldn't mention her suspicions that 'Lady Libertini' was Varania, his almost-revelation had reminded her about the invitation she'd found in Danarius' study. If she could, she'd ask him if he'd ever seen Danarius' apprentice...but how to ask him to describe her without Fenris thinking it odd? Even if he complied, so soon after nearly remembering Varania's name, what if he triggered his own memory and remembered his sister by recalling what she looked like? That would be good, unless he remembered that Hawke knew who she was. Surely, she was over-thinking things, but Hawke didn't want to see how hurt and angry Fenris would be if he realised she hadn't told him he had a sister in this very estate.

Leave it for now, she decided. Ask him at another time, when Fenris wasn't caught up in thoughts of his forgotten past.

They both turned towards the door when the distant but clear tolling of a bell sounded, announcing half past last bell.

Drawing a deep breath, Fenris sat up straight, stretching and blinking to restore his focus as Hawke rolled her shoulders and tucked her legs beneath her, both of them aware of how long they'd been sitting in the same position.

"It's getting late," Hawke murmured, although she didn't feel tired after her nap. Fenris nodded, suddenly looking indecisive.

"It is, but...there is something else I'd like to speak with you about, if you are not too tired?" He asked, with an air of steeling himself for something.

Hawke looked at him curiously, but gestured for him to continue.

"I'm not tired, Fenris. We can talk," she said when he hesitated again.

Fenris nodded, fidgeting, before forcefully stilling his hands and telling himself to stop delaying like a coward.

"What...happened yesterday, when I told you about training..." he paused again, and saw the light of realisation brighten her eyes for a moment, and her cheeks for longer. Her soft smile stopped him worrying she was ashamed about kissing an elf, however.

Galvanised somewhat, he ploughed onwards, though he could feel a similar flush in his own face.

"I...need to know what that meant. To you, I mean, I..." Why did he have to lose his ability to articulate himself properly _now_, of all times?

But Hawke bowed her head in understanding, giving a small, nervous laugh and clearing her throat – to buy time, he suspected.

"I..." At least he wasn't the only inarticulate one. Hawke sighed in what was apparently becoming mutual frustration, leaning back, her eyes roaming over the far wall and his face as she tried to think of the words. Fenris just hoped she wasn't trying to find a way to politely reject him, then wondered why it felt like everything was hanging on her answer. Yes, Hawke meant a lot to him, but this feeling of looming on the edge of the Void, waiting to be pulled back or pushed...that was absurd, surely?

It didn't stop him watching her intently, or his left hand worrying at the red favour on his wrist as he waited, struggling to be patient.

Hawke released a loud, aggravated sigh, running her hands over her face and into her hair, framing her face as she shook her head, helpless. "Maker, I _should_ say it was a mistake and it should never happen again."

Fenris' heart gave a peculiarly hard thud.

'_Should...?_'

"But...that would only be what Danarius would want me to say, and the exact _opposite_ of what _I_ want," she finished, her hands sliding from her head, a sheepish, slightly awkward smile brightening her face.

Fenris could feel the relief transforming his face; closing his eyes briefly and loaning him a small, genuine smile.

"I'm glad," he said simply, softly, one hand reaching out to cradle her face as her eyes closed, leaning into his palm. Her own hand rose to the back of his, leaving the crest balancing precariously on her folded knee.

As he drew her towards him, an odd rasping noise and an abrupt metallic clattering made them both jump and look down. The crest had slithered, unnoticed, from Hawke's knee and had bounced slightly on the stone floor.

Laughing, the soft expectation broken, Fenris scooped up the tiny shield and handed it back to Hawke, who accepted it with a final, amused hum and a fond look.

"Did you know that this was yours as well?" She asked, tapping the worn metal. "I got so caught up in giving you this back," she said, brushing her fingers over the worn cloth on his wrist, "that I forgot I had the crest as well."

"I wondered," Fenris admitted, making Hawke's head jerk up in surprise. "When Master Danarius handed it to me, I thought the crest looked...familiar, somehow. I can't quite place it, but I know I've seen that pattern before. Then, of course, there was the feel of it – I recognised it, the same way I recognised the band," he explained, bracing a hand on the ground behind her and leaning in slightly to see the family crest more clearly, his free hand lifting to trace lightly over the blunt lines forming the two eagles.

"You said this was my crest, but whose family does it signify? Not mine, surely," he asked, tilting his head slightly to look at her, his steady breaths stirring strands of her hair.

She shook her head gently, comfortably leaning into him as she answered.

"My mother's; the Amell family of Kirkwall," she said, and felt more than saw the quizzical quirk of his eyebrow.

"I'm sure I'm not related to your mother, Hawke, so why did I carry her family's crest?" He asked; a note of amusement evident in his voice.

'_Oh, balls.'_ Hawke hadn't thought the conversation would lead down this road. Although she knew the attraction was still there – if their kisses hadn't confirmed that, the way his breath shivered over the rim of her ear would do a damn good job of convincing her – she was uncertain how Fenris would react if she told him just how close they had been. Really, there was no easy way to say that just a few months ago they'd been lovers, and when they'd been captured had been mere minutes away from further destroying his room along with their clothes...

'_Focus, idiot,'_ she thought, realising that Fenris was still watching her, waiting for an answer, and there was no way he hadn't seen the rising colour in her cheeks.

"You asked for it," she said, hoping giving him an answer would make him forget to ask why she was blushing the colour of the still-glowing coals in the fireplace.

She knew she'd said something daft at his long pause.

"I asked to carry around your mother's family's crest?" He asked, sounding distinctly dubious. Hawke's cheeks grew hotter.

"Well, since Mother and I moved back into the house, it, er, kind of became my family seal as well, even though I had a different name and you...um..."

Maker damn him, she could _feel_ his amused smirk brushing against her hair.

"'And I...' what, Hawke?" He prompted softly, his voice lowering and his lips brushing the rim of her ear. Her breath caught in her throat, and she fought to suppress a shiver.

"You-" she tried again, but it was a distracted half-whimper as his breath rushed in her ear and her head unconsciously fell back to rest on his shoulder. He took advantage of the new angle; he dipped his head, his lips hovering teasingly over her own, not quite touching. Her eyes half-opened, and there was a distinct warning both there and in her voice when she murmured his name, one hand rising to idly trace the narrowing tip of his ear with her nail.

His smirk had been fading, but it returned when she spoke. Her fluster had emboldened him, and her tone merely encouraged him to challenge her as he ran a thumb idly over her lower lip.

"Yes, Hawke?" He asked, and there was something of a growl there when she first kissed, then nipped the pad of his thumb.

There was something decidedly wicked about the way she'd grinned then, Fenris would later decide. All he clearly recalled was her surging past his hand, plunging it into her hair as her searing lips met his; her body pressing tightly against his chest as he tugged her closer at the waist. She twisted to face him fully, her arms sliding around his neck as his other hand wrapped in her hair and held her deep enough in the kiss to bruise them both.

The push took him by surprise, and he toppled backwards. His back hit the cold stone floor – _wall_ – Hawke lying on top of – _pressed against _– his chest, arms braced either side of his head, her teeth grazing his lip, only to soothe the abused skin with a kiss.

His hands slid down her rough linen dress – _her fine cotton robes_ – his fingers smoothing out – _his clawed gauntlets leaving small, stuttered tears in_ – the fabric.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, Fenris reeling. He _remembered_ this. He remembered the differences – how much thinner she was; the added weight of her longer hair.

"Hawke," he whispered, stunned. He had to explain, to ask – but quiet, shuffling footsteps reached his ears, followed by a woman's voice hissing Hawke's name.

They both looked around as Enansal turned the corner from the sleeping quarters into the galley. Rather than embarrassed, she looked alarmed, her eyes wide as she waved frantically for them to stand and reach her.

"Are you both suicidal? Master's sent his guards looking for you!" She whispered as they scrambled apart.

"Us?" Hawke asked; snatching up the Amell crest before approaching the pregnant woman as Fenris rushed to gather his armour and sword.

Enansal shook her head.

"Him, but Master seemed certain he was with you," she said, nodding at Fenris as he stopped at Hawke's shoulder, holding his gauntlets in his mouth as he yanked his chest plate back on. Unable to speak, he swapped a worried look with Hawke, who turned and quickly led them back into the sleeping quarters.

"Thank you, Enansal. You get back to bed; last thing you need is the guards having a go at you," she said, giving the elvhen woman a grateful nod. Enansal returned it then scurried off to her pallet, leaving Hawke and Fenris to rush to the door acting as a wall at the back of the room.

"Get back through the slave passage; the guards don't know about them. With any luck, you'll be able to avoid them and get back to Danarius without too much hassle," she instructed as Fenris strapped his gauntlets on.

"I don't understand why Master has sent them after me. He turned in an hour ago," he growled.

"He's toying with you, like he toys with _everyone_. Why do you think he pulled that stunt with this earlier?" Hawke asked with a scowl, lifting the crest for emphasis. "He probably knew you'd done something, and turned in when he did to catch you out. Trying to trap us, the bastard," she snarled, only just managing to keep her voice lowered so the other slaves wouldn't hear.

"You'd think he would trust me, of all people," Fenris muttered unwillingly. Hawke snorted.

"My, Fenris, that almost sounded bitter," she said, her smile showing more teeth than normal in her anxiety.

"You're a bad influence," he said distractedly, glancing back towards the galley, hyper-alert for the guards, before looking back and lightly touching the Amell crest.

"I have nowhere to hide this. Keep it safe for me, Hawke," he said, his nervous crouch bringing them directly on eye-level. Hawke gave him a small, pained smile.

"I'll do better this time, I promise," she whispered, cupping his face to deliver a swift kiss. "Be careful," she urged, already drawing back and pushing his chest, driving him into the passage.

"You too," he said, gripping her hand for a brief moment. She nodded, shooting a worried glance towards the galley.

"I will. Get going!" She hissed, pulling away and waiting the second for the door to close properly before racing back to her pallet, diving under the threadbare blanket, toeing her shoes off and kicking them aside. She took a single, deep breath to steady herself before closing her eyes and forcing herself to relax, letting her mouth fall slack, slowing and deepening her breathing. Seconds later, she heard the galley door open.

* * *

><p>Fenris jogged half the way down the passage before pausing, resting against the blessedly cool stone wall, taking a few seconds to collect himself. The combined shock of those few memories ebbing back into his mind and the guards coming after him had been roughly as effective as a bucket of ice water being thrown on him, but it left his nerves feeling oddly shattered. Holding one hand up, it trembled slightly.<p>

Fenris clenched the hand into a fist, his jaw tightening. He couldn't let himself appear shaken in front of Danarius; it would be like poking an already angered snake with your bare hand.

Drawing a slow breath in, Fenris let his training take over, adopting the impassive mask of the bodyguard fall into place. His body stilled, a calculated calm stealing through his muscles.

He'd need a story for why he'd been missing. Checking up on Hawke, acting as her combat supervisor – seeing if she would be fit to train tomorrow after the lashing, today's training session and her next few hours of work. It had enough truth in it that it may fool the magister, if he was lucky. If he wasn't? Well, he'd survived Danarius' punishments before. He only hoped Danarius wouldn't decide to punish Hawke as well.

With a last resolute breath, Fenris pushed off from the wall, heading briskly down the rest of the passage.

He paused outside the door, listening for voices or footsteps. Hearing none, Fenris quietly eased the door open, taking care to close it behind him.

With a final glance for guards, Fenris turned to face Danarius' chambers and froze. The magister was pacing outside the room, thankfully with his eyes on the ground. Fenris shook the paralysis out of his limbs and strode forward, keeping his head lowered deferentially.

He waited until the mage slowed, turning to face him before speaking, careful to keep his voice politely neutral.

"You wished to see me, Master?"

The old mage was silent for several long seconds. Fenris resisted the urge to fidget, instead keeping his eyes trained on the floor, watching the human in his peripheral vision. The odd calm he could instil in himself kept his mind clear, though a small, smothered part of him felt distinctly panicked. The warrior and the slave.

Purposefully ignoring the frantic slave, and the odd feeling that his steady heartbeat should be racing, Fenris barely lifted his head when Danarius finally spoke; the merest acknowledgement that he was listening.

"Not quite, pet. It was one of your drills tonight."

With a slow, seeping sensation of dread, Fenris lifted his head fractionally to see the latest mock-assassin exiting Danarius' chambers. Those drills had stopped nearly three weeks ago. There was no reason for Danarius to have set another one...

Unless he already suspected Fenris had been hiding something.

"Now, Fenris, who could be important enough that you would _lie to me_, slink off after I had retired, and miss a drill, I wonder?"

'_I never said I _wouldn't_ turn in when you did,'_ Fenris thought as a heavy resentment lodged in his gut. Still, arguing with the Magister wouldn't end well.

The fact Danarius had specifically said 'who' and not 'what' only confirmed Fenris' suspicion that he knew he'd been to see Hawke.

"I was merely checking that Hawke would be able to train tomorrow, Master. She struggled today, and had to work after as well," he said, keeping his eyes rooted on the stone floor, painfully aware that it had only been a few metres from here where Danarius had nearly killed him in his last rage.

The silence was too thick, too heavy. He wasn't going to escape this confrontation without some form of punishment.

"So, you were being a good little wolf, obeying my orders in advance, even, by taking _over an hour_ to assess a slave's ability to fight tomorrow? Do you think me an idiot, Fenris?"

Immediately, the elf shook his head.

"No, Master; never," he murmured. _'You're too sharp, in fact,'_ he thought, a foreign, bitter edge to the words.

"Your actions indicate otherwise," the mage snapped, crossing the few feet between them to seize Fenris by the hair, driving him forwards towards Danarius' chambers.

* * *

><p>"Get in there and strip, you useless churl," he snarled, shoving the elf through the doors before turning to the assassin, apologising for his wasted time.<p>

'_Not again,'_ Fenris thought, wearily rubbing his aching scalp. Still, he proceeded over to the table beside the magister's bed, removed the blade from his back and began absently unbuckling his armour. He made sure his gauntlets had been removed and Hawke's band safely hidden inside his right-hand bracer before Danarius had even entered the room, piling the rest of his armour and leathers either on the table or on the floor beside it.

As he unfastened his tunic, he noticed the tender spot on his sternum where the shield had been wedged, and glanced at it to make sure it wouldn't be too noticeable in the dark. With his brands lit, which Danarius enjoyed whether Fenris was merely carrying out an order or being punished, the faint shadow would be nearly invisible against the burning glow.

As Fenris stood, waiting silently for Danarius to enter the room and give him the inevitable order, he caught a glimpse of eerie white out of the corner of his eye.

Not moving, Fenris ignored the magister's pet desire demons. The elf didn't know if Danarius had made a deal with the creatures, or if they merely enjoyed staying in Danarius' quarters and being invited to join the magister when he saw fit. All Fenris knew was that the demons could enhance the mage's pleasure, or help restrain panicked slaves if they tried to fight or run. Fenris himself had lashed out blindly, half-phased, when first summoned to his master's chambers, and could have killed Danarius accidentally if the demons hadn't intervened. That had been before he'd learnt to control his panic and just wait to be dismissed.

The demon studied the slave as the voices outside the door fell silent, her eyes lingering on Fenris before jumping to the armour he'd abandoned. With an abrupt, knowing laugh that made Fenris' gut clench, she flitted out of sight and over to Danarius' side as the magister entered the room.

Fenris couldn't hear what was said; only the low hum of voices, the demon's double-toned and taunting. He waited, trying not to tense as the mage approached.

Despite the demon's interest in his armour, there was no order to show his armour, or to reveal what he was hiding, only the usual instruction to get onto the bed.

Distancing himself from what he was doing as best as he could, Fenris complied, kneeling on the satin sheets, staring at the wall and bracing himself against it. He could hear the rustle of robes being unfastened and discarded a few feet behind him; the magister still standing at the foot of the bed, but a small, delicate hand slipped around his waist, and Fenris almost jumped at the silent contact.

The demon, he knew, but something wasn't right. Where were the long, talon-like nails; the icy skin?

As Fenris glanced down, a soft, warm body pressed against his back, her pale, _human_ hand tracing the markings on his stomach with light fingers marked with calluses.

Closing his eyes and suddenly finding it hard to control his breathing, Fenris tried to ignore the brush of fine cotton robes against his skin and the lips at his ear whispering his name in _her_ voice.

Gritting his teeth, Fenris resolutely kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the demon wearing Hawke's face, and searched for the composure to do what he always had, from the first week since he had awoke. Endure, and wait until it was over.


	16. Chapter 16

Hey everyone! I'm so sorry for the long wait. However, it is November again, which means NaNo, which means progress. With any luck, I will match last year's result of at least three new chapters. Due to the rush of NaNo, I may save uploading any new chapters until the start of December, so I can just write continuously during the month. I thought I'd post this one now for you though, since you guys have been waiting for so long. Thank you for your endless patience, and for sticking with me for so long.

**Warning:** Small one this time, more for referencing what happened at the end of the last chapter than anything else. It isn't too bad, but it is at the very start of the chapter. If you're uncertain, skip to the first line break.

As ever, I hope you enjoy, and I hope my writing hasn't suffered during the break. If you see any errors, feel free to let me know, and any/all feedback is appreciated. Thanks again everyone!

**Disclaimer:** Everything belongs to Bioware.

* * *

><p>The two figures whirled around the training ring, limbs already heavy with tiredness but still resolutely trading blows. Both still lacked their old grace and fluidity of movement, hampered by pain and injuries, but Danarius could already see the improvement in the woman after just three days.<p>

Hawke and Fenris slowed, hesitating, then nodded and shouldered their weapons. As they usually did, they headed for the shade of the wall, keeping a respectful distance between them but clearly talking.

Danarius frowned at the sight through his study window.

He had hoped that the elf's punishment this morning would have driven him away from the woman. Not physically – Danarius was still quite content with their training arrangement – but he could see from their easy body language that the two seemed as comfortable as ever with each other.

It would have been ideal if the punishment had worked, of course – Fenris too fearful to let his guard down around Hawke again, which would confuse and worry her in turn. She would press for why he had changed, his pet's temper would get the better of him, and they would be driven even further apart.

Hawke rested her head against the wall, tired and smiling, utterly at ease as she closed her eyes. How much trust she must have in Fenris – yet he justified it; scanning the area as he answered something the woman had said, his body relaxed and lips curved into a small smile.

Danarius' eyes narrowed.

He knew the two had been associating outside of training, even though he didn't know of any one particular instance other than last night. Yet from how comfortable his pet was around the woman, he had known her – been close to her, even – for quite some time.

It seemed his dear Champion had been purposefully ignoring his orders.

The possibility that their ease with each other was down to some latent memory of Fenris' fluttered through his mind, but Danarius dismissed it. The elf had had no memory of his master at first – if he couldn't remember Danarius, there was no conceivable way he would recall some backwater mongrel from a few years absence from Minrathous.

Danarius had known from the start that Hawke would be watching for any opportunity to escape. Yesterday, while sat entertaining his guests, he'd seen her staring at the front gates with such a calculating stillness, he'd been sure she was about to sprint for them and escape into the city.

Danarius had only wished he'd been in his study so he could see her expression more clearly – his quarters were closer to the training ring than the West Wing and the reception room.

Nevertheless, he'd seen her slump after a few minutes, instead huddling in on herself and watching the guards training. She never once looked back at the gates until Danarius had ushered his guests outdoors and to their carriage.

It had been a near-perfect opportunity to run, and the only reason Danarius could think of for her to stay put was her connection to Fenris.

Although he was baffled by the stubborn loyalty his pet had somehow inspired in the woman – even if they had been intimate, surely she could find herself another diversion in Kirkwall? – he guessed that breaking that bond would be the key to breaking the Champion's spirit. It was a small gamble; having nothing to tie her to the Imperium might result in her attempting to escape, but if she was as devoted to the elf as she seemed to be, having him reject her completely might sap her of the will to run. Even if it didn't, it might weaken her enough to making breaking her far easier.

But how to separate them? Physical separation did nothing; their display after disembarking the ship had proven that. If anything, it made them more determined to reunite.

He had thought blaming Hawke for Fenris' punishment might make the elf distant towards her – _that_ would torture her; having him so close every day, but unable to reach him. That had been his original intention, after all, in having the elf train her.

Yet this morning might never have happened, to look at them talking quietly, then slowly clambering to their feet again and heading back into the ring, stretching.

However...the elf was used to such punishments. Desensitized to them, if you will. They may not have the same impact on him as they would on the woman...

A quiet knock on the door drew his attention from the two figures starting to circle below again.

"Enter," the magister said; turning away from the window as the door opened and quiet footsteps pattered into the room.

"Ah, come in my dear," he said with a smile. "It will only be a short lesson today I'm afraid; I'm quite eager to return to my workshop for a few hours before Tiberius arrives. I think I'm close to a breakthrough, at last."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're alright, Fenris? You've been quiet," Hawke asked as she lowered her training blades, grateful for the few seconds time-out they'd allowed themselves.<p>

Fenris swiped his wrist across his forehead, blinking sweat out of his eyes. The sun was at its peak and truly unforgiving today.

"Merely tired, Hawke, and perhaps a little concussed," he said with a tight, weary grin, relying on his second statement to distract her from the first. It was an innocuous enough excuse, but the woman read far deeper into his words and expressions than he liked sometimes. It would be just his luck that today would be the day she noticed something off about him and pressed to know what was wrong.

For all her compassion and understanding; last night's punishment was the one thing Fenris was determined she would never know.

Thankfully, she grinned slightly guiltily and chuckled.

"Sorry about that. I used to be able to do those spinning attacks all the time, so I decided to try one now. Didn't quite work out, but..."

Even though she'd ruined her landing and ended up on her backside with comically wide eyes, it had been worth the embarrassment to see Fenris' momentary alarm at seeing her scything through the air in a whirl of blades and long hair. She hadn't managed to attain her usual height, which had resulted her landing in mid-spin, already off-balance from hitting Fenris in the head.

They'd stood and sat, staring at each other, before Fenris' lips had twitched and they both started snickering, trying to hide their amusement from the howling, jeering guards.

Fenris smiled again, though he rubbed what was turning out to be an impressive bump on his head.

"Well, perhaps we can work on that soon. Preferably using the training dummies, of course..."

Hawke laughed again, shooting a glance at the straw mannequins at the far side of the training ring.

"Damn. There goes my plan to knock you out and get out of training for a few days."

"You wound me, in more ways than one," he quipped, before sighing and hefting the greatsword again. "Ready?"

Hawke grimaced but nodded, slowly lifting her blades before lunging forward, trying to take him by surprise again.

She was improving, Fenris noticed as he stepped aside and parried. It wasn't so much her muscle tone – that had yet to make any noticeable changes – but her stamina was already starting to pick up.

On the first day, even without pushing herself for the extra half hour, Hawke had been fighting for breath, blinking hard and complaining of bright lights in her eyes and her hearing being muffled; as though all the sounds were coming from the other end of a long tunnel. If her legs hadn't given way, she probably would have passed out within the next minute or so. Yet yesterday, she'd been shaking and breathing hard, but her vision had remained clear and her hearing only slightly fuzzy. Today, although there was still a few minutes left of training, she seemed stronger. Her breathing wasn't quite as ragged, and her arms didn't shake as much when she blocked.

Ten minutes after the three hour mark, Fenris called a stop to the training, and followed with a small grin as Hawke wobbled over to the wall to rest her trembling legs.

"You, elf, are a sadist," she groaned as he sat beside her. She was scrubbing her calves, kneading the muscle with her knuckles. Hardly an effective massage, but it must have made her feel better because she soon sat back and sighed, eyes closed and letting her legs slide flat against the sun-heated paving.

"Only until you've recovered the strength you've lost," he said, smirking when she half-opened an eye to glare at him.

Rather than answer that, she merely grunted and closed her eye again.

"This is the one thing I like about this place. It's usually nice and warm," she muttered after a while. Even in the shade, it was as warm as one of Kirkwall's sunniest summer days.

"I take it Kirkwall was a lot colder?" He asked, genuinely curious. Any tiny detail about what had once been his home interested him, although the fact they were discussing the weather wasn't lost on him.

"Mm. Well, maybe not cold, as such. _Ferelden_ was cold. But it rained a lot, and was quite windy. Made things seem colder. Winter was always bad though – snowy most years, or sleet. At least this place is warm. Doesn't make up for the rest of it, of cour-"

"If you two are done training, get back to work or it'll be the lash for both of you!" The guard captain bellowed from the fence, wearing a scowl that would put Carver's worst to shame.

Hawke paused, not even opening her eyes. Her body seemed to fall purposefully still, and her lips twitched as though whispering. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and conjured up what Fenris guessed was supposed to be a patient expression, but looked more like she was trying to break granite between her teeth.

Still, he stood and helped her up, and they walked towards the slaves' galley door to get away from the captain as quickly as possible before he decided they hadn't moved fast enough.

Safely indoors, Hawke slumped against the wall, eye closed again, shaking her head wearily.

"I really miss the days when I could contemplate murder, and then actually get to carry it out when someone deserved it," she said, shooting a glare at the innocent door Fenris had closed behind them.

"He interrupted you, so he deserves to die?" Fenris asked, tone light but only half-certain she was joking.

Hawke huffed, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Okay, maybe not normally. But I'd make exceptions for most of the guards in this Maker-forsaken pit. Andraste knows; they've done enough to deserve it."

This again. Fenris was becoming used to the uneasy writhe in his stomach when their views on slavery clashed. It wasn't the fact that he disagreed with Hawke that made him feel uncomfortable – it was the nagging sensation that he disagreed with _himself_.

"Legally, they're within their rights as long as they don't disobey their employer," Fenris said, ducking his head and shuffling. The irrational surge of irritation rose in his chest again; resistant to his attempts to shove it away.

For a moment Hawke's glare shifted into a frown, and Fenris anticipated another argument.

It had been a while since they had last been really angry with each other, he thought, only to remember that it had only been a few days. Had it really only been when the Somniari had visited Danarius? Four days ago. It felt like four _weeks_.

Even as he tensed, sure that she was about to confuse or anger him or both, Hawke's expression changed. The frown melted away and her shoulders sagged.

"Can we just...not get into this, Fenris? Please," she asked quietly, sounding far too tired for just past midday.

He hesitated, his eyebrows hitching up at her lack of indignation.

"As you wish," he murmured eventually, though his voice lifted with his eyebrows in question.

Hawke just smiled and shook her head.

"Arguing with you makes my hear- _head_ hurt," she corrected quickly; her tone too light. It wasn't an answer, but it was all he'd be getting and Fenris knew it.

Still, the mistake made him wonder as Hawke darted to the cupboards, loudly searching for food in a rare chance to have lunch as well as dinner. Tiredness, and a mere slip of the tongue?

The panic he'd heard in her voice when he was having his shoulder healed made him think otherwise. Slaves forming attachments and relationships with each other did happen, though it was almost always a mistake, especially in this household. It was just one more tool the magisters could hurt you with.

He enjoyed Hawke's company, of course. She was compassionate, smart, remarkably spritely for a slave, strong...funny, he reflected with a grin as she turned round, beaming and cooing over half a scrawny chicken that she held up like a conqueror's sword.

He could admit to himself that he was attracted to her, he thought as he joined her on the floor beside the fire; would even say he cared about her in a way. The idea of any of the guards attacking her made him uncomfortable to say the least, and that was without listening to those odd urges of emotion he felt whenever Hawke was involved. But anything more than that?

...No. Not only would it would be foolish and dangerous, he had only known the woman for...three weeks? A little less?

Yet Hawke herself...though he could sympathise with him making her head hurt – she did it often enough to him, after all – to say her _heart_ hurt...

Well, she had known him longer than he had known her, he reasoned as he removed his gauntlets, hid the scarlet band in the right one, and helped pull the chicken apart. A quick glance through his hair showed her relaxing again – assuming he'd missed her slip, perhaps?

Yet she had all but admitted she'd been nobility, and even...away from Minrathous (it still made the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingle and rise when he thought of his freedom), there would have been far too many differences between them to permit any kind of romantic entanglement. An escaped elvhen slave, probably living in an alienage or the slums, and a human noble woman? Not only was it laughable, it was impossible.

Besides, Hawke had never made any references to them being involved prior to their enslavement. This current...relationship was more likely to be Hawke growing increasingly attached to the one person familiar to her from her old life, and mistaking her desperation to stay together for desire. On his side of things, Fenris had come to associate everything he couldn't remember, but wanted to, with Hawke. Was it any wonder, then, that he wanted to be closer to her, spend more time with her?

In the end, they were two people who had lost everything, and were gravitating towards each other to fill the gap. There was nothing wrong with that, surely. Even if there was an insidious little voice whispering that she wasn't a noble anymore; and no one would bat an eyelid at two slaves forming a relationship...

'_Enough,'_ he thought, forcefully redirecting his mind away from the topic, instead picking over the bones of the chicken with far more focus than was strictly necessary.

"I miss having lunch, and not immediately wishing it was time for dinner," Hawke sighed, finally giving up on her scavenging after throwing the miserable carcass a put-out glare.

"It sounds like quite the luxury," Fenris said, sitting back from the bones once he was satisfied that there was nothing left on them. The meal hadn't lasted anywhere near long enough, but he was used to sating some of the hunger pangs and suppressing the rest.

"It was. One you took full advantage of, I might add," Hawke said, grinning. Upon seeing Fenris' eyebrow hitch, she elaborated. "You ate enough for three Qunari, never mind one elvhen man!"

Fenris snorted, but smirked.

"Well, after fare like _that_," he threw a contemptuous glance at the chicken, "is it all that surprising?"

Hawke laughed, leaning back with a hand on her stomach and giggling.

"Keep up talk like that, Fenris, and I'll have you leading a slave revolution through the streets in a week."

Fenris' eyebrows vanished behind his hair, but his voice was commendably light when he spoke.

"You have quite the imagination, though perhaps this isn't the best place to speak of such things, even in jest," he said, throwing a quick glance at the doors.

Hawke shrugged; her small, sad smile back in place.

"Can't really do anything here, can I?" She asked, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment, before she drew in a deep breath and sat up straight. A smile popped back onto her face as she looked at him again, a tiny glint of tooth and mischief visible at the corner.

"Besides, Varric was always the creative one. Convinced a slaver that F- that the young mage lad he'd grabbed was the Viscount's love child with his elvhen mistress once. Worked, too, though we killed the slaver anyway. Although Varric's books – especially the titles – left something to be desired..."

'_We?'_ Fenris thought, wondering if that included him, or if it just meant Hawke and Varric. Still, he remembered the infuriating restrictions on Hawke's speech – asking might well earn him silence, at best.

So he chose the less dangerous route.

"Were they very bad?" He asked, careful to keep his tone casual, even though he was listening out for any stray word that may give him a tiny insight into the past.

"Oooh, yes. For example there's 'Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder'. Exactly," she added, as one of Fenris' eyebrows disappeared completely and he grimaced.

"I'm almost certain I'll regret knowing, but what does that even mean?" He asked; his voice thick with distaste. Hawke just laughed.

"Thankfully, I've no idea! I've never dared to ask him."

"That may be a blessing," Fenris said ruefully, his usual half-grin appearing.

They glanced up in unison as a babble of voices neared the inner door and the cooks of the slave food flooded in, chattering as they returned to their usual work stations. The same staff worked both kitchens, so they frequently flitted from room to room.

The group of humans and elves all but ignored the two sat on the ground; shooting Fenris a wary glance but relaxing when they saw Hawke next to him.

Hawke waved to a few of them while Fenris avoided eye contact, preferring to examine the brick wall beside the hearth rather than make himself and the other slaves more uncomfortable than necessary.

"It's no wonder people think you brood if you do that, you know," Hawke murmured out of the upturned corner of her mouth. She was still nodding and waving at her friends, so she couldn't have seen the automatic scowl that furrowed his brow, but she grinned as though she had.

It was always a little unnerving when she did things like that.

"If I did look at them, they would be frightened and shy away, and the result would be the same. I may as well spare us all the discomfort, Hawke," he reasoned.

Of course, she had a response to that. When did she not?

"Maybe they wouldn't shy away if you'd just _smile_ at them. Maker, _I_ get nervous when you glare at me; never mind some poor innocent people who don't know you."

"I only glare at you when you deserve it, Hawke," he said, easily fending off her light smack to his shoulder. He found a tiny grin threatening to curve his mouth when she started laughing, however, as she failed spectacularly at being insulted.

"Hey! I never deserve you glaring at me," she said, lifting her nose in the air and turning away, as prim as a lady in the Archon's court.

"Not even when you hit me in the head with the pommel of a dagger?" Fenris said, a pointedly arched eyebrow furrowing the purpling bruise.

Hawke spluttered for a moment, caught between laughter and chagrin.

"Okay, maybe then," she conceded finally, her mouth twisting slightly as she ducked her head.

They both looked around as the bell began to chime, sounding an hour past midday.

With a reluctant sigh, Fenris strapped his gauntlets back on without so much as a hint of scarlet showing, rolling his shoulders as he contemplated the door.

"Got work to do?" Hawke asked tiredly, already knowing the answer before Fenris could even nod his head.

"Danarius has some guests arriving in a few hours; a married couple of magisters. They're all involved in some political game; no doubt there will be at least one token assassination attempt today," he sighed as he clambered to his feet. Hawke grimaced.

"Really? Can you take the day off then?" She asked hopefully. Fenris quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm his _bodyguard_, Hawke," he said. Surely she didn't need reminding.

"That's why I'm asking you to take the day off."

Ah.

"I have my orders, Hawke," he said, carefully avoiding giving an opinion either way. From Hawke's brief but fervent glance at the ceiling, his motive had been utterly transparent.

"Go on then; I shouldn't keep you. I think I've got the wine cellar to restock today, that's going to take _ages_. Might be able to nick a bottle of Agreggio though..." she mused.

"_Hawke_," Fenris said, his voice flat with disapproval that earned him another eye-roll.

"Joking; I'm joking!" She said, smiling widely. Fenris stared back, unconvinced.

Hawke looked up at the ceiling again and threw a chicken bone at him.

"Oh, get going, you boring man. I'm sure you used to have a sense of humour," she said with a deeply put-upon sigh.

Fenris wrinkled his nose slightly, but managed a small, rueful smile.

"When you're not threatening to steal the Master's wine, I'm sure I'll be in good spirits again," he promised. Hawke snorted.

"Of course you will be. Now go on; I'll see you tomorrow," she said, waving him towards the door with a smile.

Fenris left, shaking his head in what should have been disapproval, but was ruined by his twitching mouth.

* * *

><p>Fenris stopped outside Danarius' workshop door mere seconds before it opened.<p>

The magister nodded in approval when he saw his bodyguard already waiting patiently for him.

"You're on time, good lad," he said, moving on before Fenris could acknowledge the compliment – or fully erase the odd surge of pleasure at tricking his master.

"Go and get changed into your clean leathers – there's some set out for you in your room. Meet me in my study as soon as you're done," he said, already striding away.

Fenris moved quickly, not wanting to keep Danarius waiting. He still paused to examine the clean armour on the stand, however.

It was the old set; covered in deep scratches, stitches and patches of leather that didn't _quite_ match the original material's colour.

Although the gear Fenris wore now was made specifically for him, and fit perfectly, the old set still seemed to fit better, somehow. It was more comfortable, and oddly reassuring. While doing his normal duties, Danarius preferred Fenris to wear the new armour. When guests visited however, he liked the intimidating effect the old, battle-scarred leathers gave.

Danarius was sitting at his desk when Fenris entered the study, writing up his notes in a short-hand code only he could read.

Paranoia was a magister's closest ally.

He didn't look up when Fenris walked in and closed the door behind him, instead focusing on his notes as he spoke.

"You remember what I told you about our guests, I assume?"

Fenris nodded, keeping his eyes lowered respectfully as he answered the obvious invitation to elaborate.

"Magisters Tiberius and his wife Larentia. Both respected members of the senate, but work as individuals in the political circle due to differing opinions. Tiberius shares many of your views; wanting the Imperium to remain separate from the rest of Thedas and regain the land and power it lost. He is keen to forge an alliance, but Larentia has never supported you, or anything you stand for. She has been responsible for orchestrating several assassination attempts on your life over the past seven years."

Fenris paused, but upon Danarius' wave to continue he nodded and obeyed.

"They treat their political disagreements as a game between them; but when either is threatened from an outside source, they put aside all differences and present a united front. I am to expect at least one attempt on your life during today's meeting, but I should not aim to kill either magister unless forced to do so. Any slaves that are instructed to harm you, however, I should dispose of."

Fenris fell quiet, done regurgitating the glut of information Danarius had given him that morning before sending him to training.

The magister nodded in approval.

"Very good. They will bring a number of their own slaves; some to serve them, some as food tasters, and others as would-be assassins. You will discern which is which, and thwart every attempt any of them make to harm me, be it with a dagger, poison slipped into my drink, or other means. I will not, however, expect you to do this alone," Danarius said with a generous smile.

Fenris lifted his head fractionally, but not his eyes, leaving them fixed on the lyrium-veined desk.

"I think today will be a good opportunity to showcase my newest acquisition, don't you? Tiberius and Larentia will have the honour of the first official sight before the masquerade. Go and fetch Hawke, pet, and bring her here for a briefing. It's time to put her training to good use."

* * *

><p>Hawke sighed, prising open the second crate of wine. The job was dull, but it gave her plenty of time to think.<p>

She inevitably found her thoughts drifting south to Kirkwall.

She knew the others must be searching for them, but did they even have anything to work with? Yes, they'd made an even bigger mess of Fenris' mansion than usual during the fight, but after they'd been subdued? It wasn't as though they had been able to leave a convenient trail or note behind them; not like the blood trail she, Gascard and the others had found when Quentin had kidnapped Leandra.

What was worse was that Varric, Anders and Isabela had all seen Fenris 'kill' Danarius. Even if they tried to figure out what had happened, they would never think of the magister rising from the dead and attacking them.

Meanwhile, she was stuck sorting wine bottles according to a childishly simple picture diagram showing which brand – indicated by the wax seal on the bottle – went in which rack.

If they'd just let slaves _read_, then they could just stick labels somewhere and let them sort the wine properly.

Of course, then it would give the slaves a feeling of worth, and might enable them to organise a revolution. Although the idea of the Imperium being felled by a wine list made her smile for a moment.

'_You can read. Why don't you rally them? They started to listen on the ship, afterall,'_ she thought, wearily stowing a bottle of 9:27 _Avalia Pamunalis _in its appropriate slot.

'_Oh yes, because one foreigner trying to lead a charge against the whole Imperium with nothing but untrained slaves at her back would really work.'_

'_It did for Andraste.'_

'_Oh, so you're the Maker's Chosen reincarnated now?'_

"And I'm arguing with myself. Again," she muttered aloud, glad of the privacy the job gave her. The other slaves already thought her odd enough without them thinking she was mad to boot.

"Hawke?"

"Oh, bollocks," she sighed, dropping her head against the rack with a dull thud as Fenris turned into the aisle, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

"I swear I'm not mad," she groaned, turning pitiful eyes on him.

"I never said you were," Fenris said lightly, smirking.

"Yeah, 'said'. 'Thought', on the other hand," she grumbled, but finally stepped away from the shelves and turned to face him fully.

"So, what're you doing down here? Danarius want a bottle?" _'To the head,'_ she added silently, but frowned when Fenris shuffled, his mouth flattening into a tense line.

"No, he sent me to find you. You remember the guests I told you about? It seems Danarius has decided to make my job easier by recruiting an extra bodyguard," he said, with a pointed nod at Hawke.

She blinked at him, brow furrowing and mouth opening as she shaped a confused question, but then she shook her head and closed her mouth again, holding her hands up in surrender.

"No, actually, I don't want to know. As long as I've got something to stab people with if things get dangerous, I'm happy," she said, deciding not to mention the two little knives still hiding behind her belt.

"I can't see any reason for Danarius to summon you as a guard then not provide you with a weapon," Fenris said, aiming to reassure her. Hawke snorted, grinning.

"I can. He's scared I'll use it on him," she said with a note of relish, grinning.

Fenris, about to turn and lead the way back upstairs, hesitated.

"Would you?" He asked. Hawke paused, her smile slowly retreating when confronted with his abrupt seriousness.

She bowed her head briefly in a half-nod, half-shrug.

"If I did, he'd deserve it. But today? Now?" She paused, staring at the ground with vacant eyes as she considered.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"No. What good would it do to kill him right now? We'd just end up sold to his heir, or the highest bidder – you especially, Fenris, and I won't risk that. In any case, they might be even worse than he is."

'_And we might be separated.'_

She shrugged, glancing up quickly at his face before her eyes darted away again.

"I'd only ever kill Danarius if I thought we'd be safer for it. If we were in Kirkwall, I'd say differently, but here?" She shook her head, mouthing helplessly for a moment before finding her voice for the rest. "It's not worth the risk. It really isn't."

Fenris bowed his head in the wake of her silence, closing his eyes and slowly letting his breath out.

"You trust me a great deal, to say so much," he murmured as he looked up, his eyes somehow guarded yet vulnerable at the same time.

Another helpless shake of her head.

"I tried not to, you know? But you're..." she shook her head, biting her lip in frustration.

"I'm what, Hawke?" He asked softly, something inside him twisting painfully.

"You're so _close_," she burst out in a half-whispered rush. "You're _so_ close to how you used to be, but then there are just these _moments_ when I don't even recognise you. I could make the distinction, when I first saw you again, but the past few days...it's like I can see _you_, just beneath the surface. Do you know how difficult it is; trying to keep the two sides of you separate in my head, and not being able to say _anything_?" She turned on the spot, one hand clenching in the hair at her temple, her jaw tight with aggravation.

"Do you feel that? Do you ever feel like there's two people in your head, or...?" She trailed off, but neither of them needed the elaboration.

Fenris sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. How to explain?

"Not two people, as such, but...it's like there's an underlying current. Sometimes it is quiet and barely noticeable, but other times – often around you-" he added, only slightly accusatory, "it's like hitting rapids. I know something about what I'm doing or saying doesn't feel right, but I never know why. It's not even a separate voice, just these conflicting...sensations. Does that make any sense at all?" He asked, looking up sharply in his exasperation.

Hawke managed a tight, grim little smile.

"I think so," she said, holding his gaze with bruised eyes.

Then she sighed and dropped her attention to the floor, chewing the inside of her lip in contemplation.

This was what she had been waiting for, hadn't it? This was her first, vague goal upon arriving here and Fenris having his memories burned away.

But what if he said no?

Shaking her head, she clenched her teeth for a moment before addressing the floor, unable to lift her eyes to meet his yet.

"You're right though. I am trusting you, with a lot more than I can tell you. The thing is; I need you to trust me too. I really, really need you to trust me, Fenris," she drew in a deep breath, faltered, then made herself look up and meet his worried but steady eyes.

"So tell me, please. Can you?"


	17. Chapter 17

Fenris eyes lowered, skimming the floor in a fruitless search for answers.

"Hawke, I – how am I supposed to answer that? Do I trust you with _my_ life?" He looked up, searching her face even as she struggled to hide her disappointment...and the bitterness.

"Yes, I think I can. But with Danarius' life? With his secrets, even?" He stared at her, mouth open but no words to fill the space.

Slowly, he shook his head.

"No. You've told me as much, Hawke. I can trust you with myself, but not with our Master," he said, eyes narrowed with pain.

Hawke managed a strained smile.

"Well, you trust me with the important thing, at least," she said, her voice thick even as she strove for lightness. "Anyway, hasn't the old git got guests? We'd better get moving," she said, setting her eyes on the stairs and moving briskly past him, careful not to touch him as she walked by.

"Hawke," he said, appealing, but she clenched her jaw and feigned deafness.

Fenris' hands curled into impotent fists, and he bowed his head for a moment, feeling utterly foolish.

Still, with nothing more he could do, he turned and silently followed her upstairs, taking the lead when they stepped into the corridor and she hesitated for a moment.

Neither acknowledged the change, but they stayed even further apart than they usually did in the training ring, the distance saying more about their emotions than their faces ever could as they stepped into Danarius' study.

The mage looked up, and for that first instant his eyes flickered between them, seeing the tense jaws and taut muscles as they kept a safe few feet in between them.

Then he straightened from his work and smiled, all calculations wiped from his eyes.

"Good, you're back. I assume you took so long because Fenris was briefing you on our guests?" He asked in mild rebuke, but Hawke nodded smoothly.

"Yes, Master. The Magisters Tiberius and Larentia," she said, and Danarius nodded.

"Due to Larentia's delightful little game, I think it wise to provide you with some protection. No need for you to die before I can show you off at the masquerade, now is there?" He asked, and Hawke started, remembering just in time that she wasn't supposed to know anything.

"M-Masquerade? Master," she added hastily.

Danarius stared at her for a moment, eyes sharp as he picked apart her response. He soon nodded, however.

"Yes, at the end of the month. It will be quite the celebration; the largest in several centuries, in fact. It is a rare thing for a Somniari to be discovered – a young lad, from your old city, I believe!" He said, in a note of clear surprise. "Feynriel, his name is. Arrived a few years ago. You wouldn't happen to know him, would you?" He asked mildly.

Hawke gave herself a few seconds of thoughtful consideration.

"Not that I recall, Master. It's nothing on Minrathous, of course, but Kirkwall is still a pretty large city. I don't know everyone who lives there," she said, bowing her head meekly, keeping her voice as humble as possible.

"Of course not," the mage replied, all jovial dismissal.

"Anyway, let us be moving on. Follow me," he said, standing and leading the two of them out of the room, turning towards his quarters.

"You will be provided with weapons, and some armour that I think you might recognise," Danarius said, smirking, as he opened the door.

There, set up on an armour stand in the middle of the room, was Hawke's old Champion armour set.

She walked towards it in a daze, stunned.

"It arrived back from the armourer's this morning. I think you'll find it in full repair, and cleaned of blood, of course," Danarius said from the doorway.

Hawke turned slightly, looking back at the mage, expecting him to be watching her.

Instead, he was staring at the elf, carefully waiting for any emotion or reaction to cross his face.

Her heart jumping in her chest, Hawke glanced at Fenris.

His face was remarkably impassive, but...there were just the slightest signs of a frown around his eyes and mouth. Most people wouldn't notice it, but Hawke and Danarius were probably the two people who knew Fenris – and how to read him – best.

Casually, so as not to draw attention to the movement, Hawke looked back to the armour.

It was indeed in fine condition; the repairs barely noticeable considering – Hawke moved around to the back of it – it had been ripped open and bathed in her blood during her flogging.

Barely a visible stitch to show the damage.

"I thought it would have been destroyed, or sold," she said, keeping a note of breathless wonder in her voice as she walked back round to the front of the armour. Try and keep him distracted; keep his attention away from Fenris.

Despite the painful blow of what had been said in the wine cellar, Hawke still couldn't help but protect him, Maker help her.

Even the gauntlets were there; she thought they'd been left back in the mansion. Someone – Danarius himself? – must have picked them up on the way out.

"Such a fine piece of workmanship? No, no, keeping it was a much better option. Besides; now it can protect its old owner, once again," Danarius said, and from the change in the volume of his voice, Hawke knew he'd turned to face her.

She didn't miss the slight emphasis he'd put on 'old' – always reminding her that she was nothing, and owned nothing. Still, she was the one who got to wear the armour, so she could easily ignore him.

"I'm afraid you'll have to settle for Tevinter blades, although I'm sure you'll agree that they are of a superb quality," he said, to draw her attention to the sheathed blades hung on the armour stand.

Hawke reached for them, hesitated.

"May I?" She asked.

Danarius inclined his head.

"Certainly. The balance may not be right for you, but they will have to suffice for today. That won't hinder you too much, I assume," he continued, as Hawke drew the blades with a soft ring of steel.

"No – the balance isn't too bad, actually," she said, holding one of the blades up to examine it.

They were long, straight-edged blades, tapered to a point – perfect for stabbing. Double-edged, they could inflict slashing wounds as well – Hawke wouldn't have any trouble with any of her usual attacks with these blades. The balance was only slightly off – it tended towards the hilt, but it was so small a difference that Hawke doubted it would impact her fighting ability at all. The blades themselves were quite plain, but there was some slight decoration on the grip. Perfectly functional, well-crafted blades.

"I'm glad you approve," the magister said, a heavy note of irony in his voice that made Hawke remember she was a slave being gifted – temporarily – with weapons, not a customer in a blade smith's shop.

"Thank you for these, Master," she said, bowing her head.

Danarius raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"You can change behind the screen," he said. "Be quick – the guests will be here soon. When you're done, wait in the reception room. Fenris, with me."

Hawke bowed briefly as Danarius left, averting her eyes when Fenris glanced at her, and waited for the door to close before ducking behind the ornate screen.

She had to tighten the straps on the armour by a notch or two, to accommodate her reduced musculature, but it was a relief to have the reassuring weight of the old armour on again. It made her feel abruptly more like _Hawke_; more like the Champion.

Such a massive difference a piece of armour made.

Hawke stepped out from behind the shade, circling her arms and rolling her shoulders, getting a feel for the gear again and warming her muscles up. It was almost guaranteed that something would happen today; no need tempt fate and risk a muscle strain at the moment she needed to rely on her body the most.

Stepping out of the study, she headed briskly for the opposite Wing and the reception room. A glance out of a window showed a carriage just pulling in through the gates.

The reception room was typical of Tevinter mansions; large windows, low couches around a low table in the middle of the room so the magisters could recline while they ate and drank. Fine artwork, sculptures and pottery sat in the alcoves around the room. There was plenty of space around the couches, so that slaves could move around the group with ease.

Hawke began calculating the best possible place to stand in the room. There were no real places to hide, which was an advantage and a disadvantage. The layout of the room purposefully enabled guards to stand anywhere in the room and be able to see everything else occurring in it.

Fenris would stand near Danarius' seat at all times, so if Hawke positioned herself roughly opposite, they wouldn't have any blind spots caused by the bodies between them.

As she waited, a group of slaves bustled in and began laying out glasses and plates. The food and wine would arrive later.

They shot her nervous glances as she lounged against the outside wall, looking down into the courtyard as the magisters greeted Danarius.

The man embraced the older magister warmly, but his wife merely gave him a cold smile and the barest inclination of her head.

A group of several slaves stood a few steps behind their masters, heads bowed respectfully. Ten, in total. Hawke wondered which of them were the assigned assassins.

She picked out a couple who stood out; they had a smooth grace of movement, their actions carefully controlled. Their muscle toning was good – these, at least, were either personal bodyguards or two of the assassins. Or both, Hawke mused with a grin.

They both had clearly visible blades, so bodyguards were likely. There were another three that might be trained, but might simply be slaves used to hard labour; they had decent muscle tone, anyway.

The more dangerous ones might be the thinner, less imposing individuals. You could never tell which would be experts at sleight of hand and misdirection – perfect for slipping something into a drink as they served it.

They'd just have to keep their eyes peeled; Hawke thought as the group headed into the building and vanished from view, and hope that Larentia wasn't in a particularly determined mood today.

Quietly, Hawke moved across the room to stand beside the door. No matter who entered first, she could anticipate any attacks coming to Danarius from the front, and Fenris would be standing behind him, shielding him from the back.

Plus it was always funny to make people jump when they walked into a room and didn't expect to see anyone there. Particularly if those people were arrogant bastards who needed taking down a peg or ten.

She passed the few minutes it took for Fenris and the others to arrive by stretching and warming her muscles, and practicing drawing her blades. It always took a little while to adapt to a new pair of blades – they all sat slightly differently on her shoulders, occupied a slightly different space to the previous daggers.

When she heard the footsteps outside, she straightened and made sure the blades were secure, but easy to draw.

It was simple to still her body, quiet her breathing, and blend into the background. Yes, her red and black armour was a sharp contrast with the pale walls, but Hawke was practiced at slipping below notice. She'd been doing it since the twins were born, after all.

Seconds later, the magisters and their entourage swept into the room.

Sure enough, the magisters walked straight past her and didn't see a thing, as did most of the slaves.

Fenris, however, glanced at her without moving his head or pausing at all. The two slaves she'd pegged as bodyguards spotted her as well, as did the other three she'd thought might be trained.

Silently congratulating herself on her good eye, Hawke waited until the three magisters had turned and spotted her, Danarius smirking as his fellow mages masked small starts of surprise.

"Ah, I see you've found my newest addition. You may have heard a couple of stories about her a few years ago – the Champion of Kirkwall?" He said in Arcanum.

Tiberius and Larentia's eyebrows rose in unison.

"You defeated the Arishok," Tiberius said, an impressed note in his voice as he switched to Common so Hawke could understand him.

Uncertain of whether she was allowed to speak or not, Hawke settled for a deep nod. It was more enigmatic, anyway.

"In single combat, no less. Quite the feat," Larentia added, her eyes narrowing as she assessed Hawke, as though weighing up how much she was worth at auction.

Hawke nodded again, holding the dip slightly in a muted bow. She was dimly aware of Fenris, standing just behind Danarius' left shoulder, staring at her, a strange look in his eye.

'_Didn't expect that,'_ she noted, strangling the grin that threatened. It was immensely satisfying to surprise him; more so after what had happened in the wine cellar. It was petty, she knew that, but she couldn't help the smug burning in her chest at the faint smoothing of his forehead as his eyebrows stretched out of their usual frown in surprise.

"Indeed. A valuable addition, and no, Tiberius, she isn't for sale." Danarius smiled as his guest sighed, throwing Hawke a covetous look before shrugging.

"What is it you intend to use her for, then? The Qunari wars?" He asked, swapping back to Arcanum as Danarius waved them towards the couches.

The magisters seated themselves, and the slaves silently stepped into place around them. A few glances from Hawke to Fenris and at the other slaves, and the two of them had silently split their duty in half; each of them tracking five slaves and one magister.

"Oh, not quite yet. I plan to keep her safely here until the Masquerade. My surprise exhibit, if you will. I hope neither of you will spoil the surprise for the others?" Danarius inquired as a handful of his own slaves stepped into the room, bearing wine and food.

"No, no, it'll be interesting to see their reactions. Right, my dear?" Tiberius said, turning to his thin-lipped wife.

She sighed, and patted his hand.

"Very well, very well. I'll keep my silence," she said, with a swift glance to one of Danarius' slaves that Hawke nearly missed.

The rogue frowned. That wasn't right. And the man's sleeve was tugged unusually far down over his hand...

With two light steps, she'd covered the distance and seized the neck of the wine bottle in one hand and the neck of the slave in the other, abruptly halting the alcohol before it could leave the lip of the bottle.

She pulled both back, away from the table, pinching the nerves in the base of the man's neck to steer him easily.

Glancing about, she spotted Sabain, one of the other servers.

"Recognise him?" She asked, tilting her head at the slave. Sabain nodded, eyes narrowed.

"One of the newer lads. Arrived about the same time you did. Joined our group today with the bottle, apologising for being late," he said, scowling.

Hawke nodded, extricated the bottle from the man's hand, and passed it back to Sabain.

"Get that tested, just in case, and bring a replacement up. Don't want to take any chances, after all," she said, using her free hand to yank the man's sleeve down his arm.

A tiny vial was strapped upside down to the inside of his wrist, a thin, barely visible thread attached to the stopper at one end and wrapped tightly around his little finger. One pull and the clear poison would drop into the wine glass.

It was still sealed.

The magisters, who had watched in a wary silence until this point, relaxed.

"It seems your own slaves are turning on you, Danarius. Can't you even control them?" Larentia asked in Common as Hawke tugged the man further away and pinned his hands behind his back. She could feel him trembling.

"What happened?" She breathed, keeping her lips as still as possible.

"Money," he whispered; his voice thick with fear and tears. "Belt."

Hawke released his neck and glanced at his shabby clothes. No pockets, but he had many rags tied together around his waist in a makeshift belt. There was a small bulge over his right hip.

Sure enough, she tugged a small coin purse out of the belt and weighed it in hand, the clink gaining everyone's attention again.

"At least thirty _denarii_, Master," she said, lifting the bag in a subtle offer. Danarius held his hand out, and Hawke lobbed it, _gently_, over to him. It wouldn't do to accidentally hit him in the face with a purse full of money in front of guests, after all.

"I see. This was not a question of control then, Larentia," he said, smiling as he gave her the nondescript purse to examine.

"Apparently not," she said, unabashed. Hawke had to hand it to the woman, she was a good actress.

"Who paid you, boy?" Danarius asked, and the man swallowed, his pupils huge.

"That one, Master. I don't know his name, sir," he said, nodding at the large bodyguard standing behind Larentia since Hawke stopped him from pointing.

Danarius smiled.

"Good lad. Caught out again, Larentia. You're losing your touch, my dear," he said, plucking the coin purse back out of her hand.

The female magister shrugged.

"It was an impulsive idea," she admitted, completely unconcerned.

"Larentia," her husband protested, disappointed and weary. He'd obviously been audience to this before.

"Oh, hush. It's all just a game, isn't it Danarius?" Larentia asked, smiling coldly at her host.

"Of course, of course. Shall we move on?" After his guests' nods, he waved a careless hand.

"Fenris," he said, directing his fingers towards the man Hawke held. She felt his body go rigid.

"Wait. Wait!" He bleated as Fenris stepped silently from behind Danarius' seat. "Master, I told you who paid me! I told you!" He said, shaking and trying to back away. Hawke could taste bile, but she steeled herself and spun the man around to face Fenris.

Danarius barely spared him a glance.

"You also took the money and tried to poison me. Continue, pet," he said, and never looked back after that.

The man was gibbering, and began wildly throwing his weight from side to side, trying to break out of Hawke's grip.

She bit the inside of her lip and tugged his arms higher up his back, so that he cried out and froze, back arched in agony.

The pain didn't deter him for long, and he writhed, shouting wordlessly, tears streaming down his face.

Struggling to restrain his desperate strength, Hawke hooked her foot around his ankle and dragged him off-balance, using his precarious stance to knock him to the ground. She tried to control his descent somewhat, but he still hit the ground hard.

Wishing for a hundred lashes instead of this, Hawke pinned him to the ground and bent low over him, using her hair as a screen to hide her mouth from the magisters.

"It'll be quick, I promise. I'm sorry; it'll be quick, it'll be quick," she whispered through his squalling screams, staring up at Fenris as he approached, the winding lyrium sparking to life.

He met her eyes and nodded; his jaw tight.

He knelt beside them, ignored their audience, and plunged his hand into the man's back.

Hawke saw, felt and heard the distinctive snap and limpness that signified a snapped spine; she watched as Fenris' hand moved left and down to the man's heart. The man stopped screaming, eyes widening.

The muscles in his arm tensed, and the man frowned, sighed, and his eyes emptied.

A few seconds, and Hawke was pinning a corpse.

As she stood and stepped away, she caught the two visiting magisters watching Fenris with twin expressions of appreciation and greed.

She had a feeling these were two mages that wouldn't be intimidated by Fenris simply pouring the wine.

Fenris quickly dried his hand on the dead slave's shirt, having nothing else to use, then rose and moved back to his post in silence.

As two of Danarius' slaves entered and carefully carried the body out, Hawke glanced around at the visiting slaves.

During all the chaos would have been an ideal opportunity to attack Danarius, but it looked like all of them were frozen in shock or fear. They weren't like their owners – they were terrified, even the bodyguards, from the way they held themselves – absolutely rigid, their eyes wide.

At least they hadn't accidentally missed an assassination attempt. That, or they had, and the assassin was a very good actor.

Oh well. They'd find out soon enough.

Apparently everything was fine, since Danarius didn't drop dead in the next few hours, thanks to his bodyguards. Hawke and Fenris foiled a further three attempts on his life, one of which was actually a diversion for the second.

It was a busy day, to say the least, and they were both a bit bloody by the end of it. Hawke had the chance to use her daggers, and didn't feel guilty about this one.

One of the trained slaves had gone for Danarius, while one of the bodyguards attacked Fenris' back when the elf moved to defend his master.

Hawke hadn't wasted a second in drawing one of her new blades and burying it hilt-deep in the man's side, throwing her whole weight behind it to knock him and his descending blade off-course.

When she'd turned back after slitting his throat for good measure, Fenris had killed Danarius' attacker and another slave with a needle in his hand.

More poison. Larentia must like it.

The woman herself remained utterly unmoved by her successive failures, almost disinterested. She, Tiberius and Danarius talked around it, briefly commentating on it the way they might a play.

Things were going well, relatively speaking. Hawke and Fenris still had an inbuilt ability to work together flawlessly, even though she was still avoiding even looking at him unless she had to. Danarius hadn't died, which Hawke couldn't see as a good thing, but at least their futures weren't about to change dramatically with the arrival of a new master.

Then the conversation changed.

"So, Danarius, you've a new apprentice I hear? Such a shame about Hadriana," Tiberius said, lifting another flute of wine to his lips.

Danarius' smile showed plenty of teeth, but it was as false as his kindness.

"Yes, a pity. She was reasonably skilled. The new one is not as strong... unlike your daughter, I hear. By all accounts, she is turning out to be quite the admirable young mage," he said, and Tiberius opened his mouth to answer, a proud smile on his face.

Larentia cut in.

"What was your new girl's name again, Danarius?" She asked; her tone deceptively light. Her eyes were far too sharp – they'd caught the fake cast to Danarius' smile, and the way he turned the conversation away from his apprentice.

A muscle twitched in Danarius' jaw.

Hawke tried very hard not to look interested, but she did sneak a glance at Fenris through her hair.

That tiny frown was back again, though whether that was down to some niggling recollection of Hadriana's name or Larentia's persistent harassment of Danarius, Hawke couldn't tell.

"Varania. As I say, she's not the most promising candidate; she'll probably be dead in a year or two. Doesn't have the backbone to make her way in the Imperium, never mind the Senate," Danarius said, scoffing.

So she'd been right. Varania was 'Lady Libertini'.

Wary, Hawke shot another look at Fenris, wondering how he'd reacted.

As she watched, Fenris' frown deepened.

Hawke's heart started beating a little harder. What would happen if Fenris remembered something, here, in the middle of Danarius' meeting?

Maker, what would happen if he remembered anything, anywhere?

She forced herself to look away and schooled her face into calm focus, scanning the other slaves again to make sure they weren't up to anything. If anyone noticed her distraction now, it would be a sure sign that she and Danarius were hiding something between them.

"But you took her on. If she is so weak, why would _you_, of all people, accept her as an apprentice?" Larentia pressed, eyes narrowed.

Beside her, Tiberius shifted uncomfortably.

Hawke stifled a sigh. So everyone knew Danarius was hiding something now. If he sent Fenris out so he could speak freely, Fenris would know it was something about him. He'd probably be able to assume Varania was from his past, somehow – he might even make the jump to her being a relative. Yet even then, Danarius wouldn't tell the magisters what had happened. His pride wouldn't let him reveal that an ex-slave had held him to a deal he'd made to manipulate her. His reputation would plummet – and Varania's might rise.

Danarius pulled back his mask, recovering quickly.

"The girl intrigued me. She seemed to have more potential when I first agreed to tutor her, true. In reality, however, she struggles. I've not yet let a student confound me, however, and she will not be the first. I'll train her to the best of my ability until she either becomes a full magister, or dies. Admittedly, the latter looks more likely... " Danarius said, shrugging.

As Larentia sat back, dissatisfied but silenced, Danarius waved Fenris forward and pointed at the replaced wine bottle.

Hawke's eyes narrowed slightly, watching as Danarius' studied Fenris' face as the elf refilled his master's glass.

The mage didn't want more wine at all. He wanted to see how Fenris had reacted to such prolonged discussion about his sister.

The elf had smoothed his expression out, however, and even Hawke couldn't detect any signs of worry or confusion.

Safe. Or whatever came close to it in Tevinter.

As Fenris placed the bottle back on the table and stepped back into his place behind Danarius' seat, the conversation turned back to Tiberius and Larentia's daughter, and Hawke let herself relax fractionally.

Still, it was reassuring, in a way, to know roughly how powerful Varania was. That Danarius didn't think much of her was a relief – if Hawke, Fenris and the others could tear apart the older magister and all his lackeys, alive, dead, demonic or otherwise, then Varania should pose little problem.

That was if she even encountered the red-haired elf, anyway. So far, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of the apprentice – probably thanks to Danarius' meddling.

It made her wonder, though. Varania had been invited to the Masquerade – if Hawke made a move to kill Danarius there and escape with Fenris, would his sister move to defend her tutor, or take advantage of the power vacuum? It was something worth pondering, anyway. It wasn't like she had much else worth doing here.

That, of course, was when the remaining assassins chose to act.

A slender girl was walking past Danarius' seat, heading around to pour her mistress' wine.

A garrotte slipped from her sleeve, and she looped it in a practiced motion around Danarius' throat as the remaining bodyguard lunged for Fenris and a third slave spun and snapped his elbow into Hawke's face.

Hawke jerked back with a surprised grunt, but training and instincts were already kicking in even as she blinked the white and black dots from her vision.

Her blades whisked out of their scabbards as she ducked and sidestepped the next blow; a solid punch at her head intended to drop her.

She strafed around his side, stepped in close, and punched her daggers in and up under his ribcage. She felt them puncture the diaphragm, and one entered the heart.

With a wet, sucking sensation, she twisted the blades free and spun away, took a second to steady and aim, then threw her right-hand blade towards the woman strangling Danarius.

The mage had lightning lancing from his hands and into the woman's arms. She was giving a high-pitched keening, her body jerking, but her grip didn't relax.

Despite her thrashing, she saw the blade and her eyes widened. She tried to yank the magister to his feet as a shield, but she was too slow and he too heavy; the dagger buried itself in her chest. The blade opened a deep gash in Danarius' shoulder as it passed, blood spilling out onto the pale robes.

'_Silver and white. That's just asking for a spill on it,'_ Hawke reflected in a daze as the magister dropped back to his seat, clawing the wire away from his neck and hissing as it pulled away from the deep lacerations in his skin.

Figuring he could sort himself out, Hawke turned her attention to Fenris and the other bodyguard.

The elf had weathered the surprise attack better than she had; just catching the pommel blow on time before it could slam into his head and retaliating with a simple but effective punch to the gut to buy himself enough room to draw his blade.

He'd almost finished the human man off; clearly the superior swordsman of the two.

As Hawke turned to look, Fenris parried a downward strike, shoved forwards and gutted the man while his balance was thrown.

Tiberius was on his feet, protesting loudly, saying something about his wife going too far. Danarius looked ready to flay Larentia alive, and stray sparks still leapt from his fingers.

Hawke and Fenris swapped a glance and held ready, their blades drawn. The tension and magic in the room was thickening, and if the mages started to battle, Danarius would need both of his bodyguards.

Tiberius had stopped shouting now, but he was glancing anxiously between his wife and friend. Larentia seemed as unruffled as ever, but there was a subtle tension in the line of her shoulders and she had sat up properly, her feet on the floor in case she needed to dodge quickly.

Slowly, however, Danarius exhaled and straightened, magic bubbling up under the ruined skin of his neck and shoulder. The blue-green tendrils writhed as the knitted together the frayed and whitened lips of skin.

Despite everything, Hawke felt a grudging moment of respect then. Healing often wasn't pleasant, especially for lacerations, yet Danarius never once betrayed even a flicker of discomfort or pain.

"I think that will do for today, Tiberius, Larentia. The person on the door will show you out," he said, his voice carefully controlled. He didn't move from his chair to say goodbye. Tiberius fluttered nervously around Larentia as she stood in a graceful sweep of robes.

"I trust we will see you at the Masque then, Danarius. Vale," she said, a thin smile playing about her mouth as she turned and strode towards the door, her husband shuffling after her and casting guilty glances over his shoulder. Their few remaining slaves scuttled out after them, eyes wide and fixed ever since the first death in the room.

All three of them held motionless for several seconds until the sound of retreating footsteps had faded completely, then Danarius sank back into his seat with a weary sigh.

"Larentia, _festis bei umo canavarum_," he muttered to himself with a tired laugh. Hawke didn't catch all of it, but she got the gist.

_'Larentia can get in line,'_ she thought sourly, slowly sheathing her blades and rolling her stiff shoulders. The sporadic fights hadn't been as intense as her training sessions, but she still felt drained.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Fenris mirroring her; swinging the greatsword onto his back again before arching his back, his spine popping, then slumping back into his customary slouch and prodding at a cut in his shoulder.

"Of course, Larentia very nearly missed her chance thanks to you, Champion," Danarius said quietly, and Hawke glanced around sharply, an irrational flutter of panic brushing the walls of her stomach. He couldn't read minds, could he? No, he must mean when she'd saved him...but no. Danarius was carefully massaging the loose skin of his shoulder, so recently healed. Stray rivulets of magic still slipped from his fingers to sink through cloth and skin and into the muscle.

Hawke stared, speechless. She had saved him from being strangled to death – that woman would _not_ have let go, being electrocuted as she had been – and he was blaming her for cutting him in the process?

"Master?" She asked when he looked at her, clearly waiting for a response. She kept her teeth clenched and didn't elaborate. Maybe she was wrong.

In the corner of her eye, Fenris had straightened and was watching them. She couldn't make out his expression clearly, but from the stillness of his body, he thought something was wrong.

At least he wasn't so brainwashed as to think this was fair, she thought bitterly as Danarius stood slowly, carefully leaning on his staff.

"You opened my shoulder almost to the bone, Champion. Or did you forget that _minor_ detail?" The magister asked; an odd gleam in his flat eyes. Triumph? Satisfaction? It was gone too quickly, leaving only stern, steely grey behind.

She shouldn't have done it. She knew it, in a detached part of her mind even as her temper frayed.

But months of frustration and pain and anger had a breaking point, and Hawke found hers.

"I also saved your life, several times today. Or did _you_ forget _that_ minor detail, _Magister_?" She spat, her muscles tensing with fury even as both men stilled.

"What was that, Champion?" Danarius asked; his tone far, far too light to match the distance in his eyes, but not even Fenris flinching and trying to subtly catch her eye was enough to convince her to stop.

She took a step closer, unconsciously leaning forward and squaring her shoulders, bracing as though for a fight.

"_I. Saved. Your. Life._ And you criticise me for an _enemy _dragging you into the path of a _thrown_ blade? Tell me, how could I possibly have any control over that? How? If it hadn't been for me and Fenris, you would be dead several times over today alone," she snarled, tensing as Danarius slammed the butt of his staff against the marble floor, stepping forward with his free hand raised.

"It is my _right_ to criticise you, slave. You performed your duty, yes, but poorly, and you then have the _gall_ to raise your voice to me afterwards? I have had others of your ilk tortured and killed for less," he said.

"I know; I had to listen to them screaming for the first two weeks I was here," Hawke said coldly, before a heartless smile spread across her face and she threw her arms out.

"Face it, Danarius. If it wasn't for us – your _slaves_ – you would have died _years_ ago. And you can't stand that, can you? You can't bear that fact that you owe your life and success to the people you treat like filth to be scraped from the sole of your shoe; more than that!" she said, stepping forward again as the magister – for one, tiny instant – blanched.

"It's more than that, isn't it?" She repeated; her voice dropping to a soft, careful murmur. "You're scared of us, aren't you? You're scared that if we figure out just how much you depend on us, we could take it all away. You attack and oppress us so much so that we won't see that we have more power than you could ever have!"

"_Hold your tongue before I have it cut from your mouth!" _Danarius shouted, blotches of colour appearing on his pale cheeks, his knuckles bleached as he gripped his staff.

"Go on then! Go on! I don't care anymore! You – you and every fucking magister in this Maker-forsaken country are pathetic! Tevinter would _crumble_ without slaves-!"

The dull, thick _thunk_ knocked the voice out of her and dragged a trench in her cheek as Danarius' staff scythed around and struck hard. Hawke barked out a harsh note of agony and staggered, barely catching herself on one of the low couches before she hit the ground.

One hand hovered briefly near her ruined cheek, the blood flowing down her jaw and neck, as she drew in ragged breaths, her eyes fixed on the magister in front of her.

Danarius didn't expect the sudden, furious lunge forwards; Hawke clearly saw the alarm in his eyes even as he swept his staff up and around again.

Fenris did, however. Hawke crashed into him as he rushed between the two of them, one hand intercepting the one of hers on course for Danarius' throat as his other arm locked around her ribs, partially lifting her from the ground to stop her from forging forwards.

"Fenris-!"

It wasn't anger in her voice.

The staff slammed squarely into his back and Fenris staggered forwards, pain from his previous injuries spiking into existence sharply enough to steal the breath from his lungs and the shout from his throat.

"Fenris!" Hawke said again, her panicked hands gripping his shoulders as his own fell slack; numbed for a moment by what felt like a crater between his shoulder blades.

He dragged enough control back to grasp her arms with tingling fingers and meet her wide eyes, even as he steadied himself and made sure he was still firmly between Hawke and Danarius.

Even he didn't know which of them he'd moved to protect.

There was a moment when none of them spoke, the only sounds their laboured breathing as they all waited in anticipation of another attack.

When it became clear that Hawke wasn't about to lunge again, Danarius straightened, his eyes colder than Hawke had ever seen them.

"Get that ungrateful mongrel bitch into one of the cells until I've decided what to do with her, Fenris. Tell one of the guards to start with forty lashes when you get there. I'll see to the rest personally," he said, straightening his robes as he marched past them, striding out of the room with each _crack_ of his staff echoing off the marble floors.

Once the sound had faded, Fenris slowly let his grip on Hawke ease away and sank down onto one of the couches, his face grey with pain. Hawke followed him, kneeling on the ground beside him as he hung his head and released an unsteady breath through his gritted teeth.

"Are you-?" Hawke asked; her voice so small and high she sounded like an anxious child.

"Nothing's broken this time, at least," he said with a taut, ghoulish attempt at a grin. His white teeth stood out in sharp contrast with his tanned skin.

Hawke shook her head, the fine lines around her eyes creasing as she looked at him.

"Why did you jump in?" She asked, a helpless, lost note lifting her voice.

Fenris' teeth vanished behind his frown.

"Why did you antagonise him, Hawke? Are you truly so desperate to anger him?" He asked; his voice weary.

Hawke gaped at him, and her voice caught as she floundered for what to say.

"An-_antagonise_? Fenris, you _saw_ him; I saved him and he just-"

"Not that. Afterwards. Those things you said; about the Imperium. About it crumbling," he said, waving one hand to cut her off only to wince at the movement. Something about that line was niggling at him, though he couldn't place why.

Hawke's face grew sombre and her eyes darted away again as she sat back on her heels, her shoulders slumped.

"It's true, isn't it? I've seen that now, after living here. But I guess this is what I get for quoting you," she murmured, staring down at her gauntleted hands, running the pad of her thumb over the pointed claws of the fingers she'd tried to bury in Danarius' throat.

"I said that?" He asked quietly, waiting for the pulsing agony in his back to abate slightly before attempting to move. He may as well spend the time talking, especially if Hawke seemed willing to answer him.

He felt guilty, getting answers from her when she was obviously feeling worried and perhaps a little guilty herself, but the lure of new information was too much to resist. Besides, talking took his mind off the thudding pain in his spine and shoulders.

Hawke gave a tiny nod.

"'Tevinter would crumble without slaves.' Those were your exact words. That's why they're so terrified of a rebellion, isn't it? If the slaves truly rallied and fought against them, the magisters wouldn't stand a chance. I mean, how many people in Tevinter are slaves? A quarter? A third? A half, even? And whose side would the civilians take, if there was a war?" Hawke paused; shaking her head again in what Fenris guessed was disbelief.

"It's just...it's so strange. If the nobles in Ferelden or Kirkwall attempted to control that many people, there'd be utter chaos. No one would stand for it. Yet here...so few people fight against it. Not even the people who are brought here." A bitter smile bared her teeth as she lifted her head, looking sideways at the room around them, shaking her head.

"Not even me," she said; her voice heavy with disgust.

Fenris glanced away, his mouth tense at the corners. That odd sensation had returned again, but this time he found himself agreeing more and more with Hawke. Maybe it was just the throbbing in his back that was influencing him, but the protests of the slave in him seemed muted and far away.

"Self-preservation is a strong motivation to stay silent," he said quietly, ducking his head even though Hawke could see beneath the curtain of hair he used to hide his face.

"As is cowardice," Hawke whispered, her hands clenching on her knees.

Fenris managed a breath of a laugh, even though it made pain race from his spine to his fingertips again.

"I find that hard to believe from you, Hawke," he said, something of a reprimand in his voice as she looked up at him.

That drew a small smile out of her, and it was her turn to duck her head, her slight flush visible on her undamaged cheek before long strands of hair fell to disguise it.

The quiet suspended between them, like a cobweb cast adrift catching on two pillars and briefly coming to rest.

Then Hawke lifted a hand and tried to mop away some of the blood caking her neck and cheek, and the cobweb was blown away again as Fenris remembered he was supposed to be leading her to the dungeons.

He gave a heavy sigh, and his back throbbed reluctantly. It was so tempting to just sit here in the tenuous peace – rather that, even with the pain – than to follow his orders.

Hawke was looking up at him though, with a small, sad smile on her face – twisted slightly to avoid pulling on her cheek.

Wordlessly, she clambered to her feet and carefully helped Fenris up, both of them moving gingerly lest they jarred his spine.

They stood together, Hawke's arm around his waist and his over her shoulder, her free hand gripping his wrist. For a moment, Fenris immersed himself in the discomfort of her grip until it had faded into something more pleasant, then he turned his wrist enough to clasp her hand tightly.

For those few seconds, it was enough to stand in the silence and just hold on.


	18. Chapter 18

Hey everyone. First things first, I am so sorry this chapter took so long, but it has been very difficult to write. I wanted to get my university studies done first, since after Christmas it's pretty much solid work until we finish. I started this chapter months ago, but writing was slow. I finally had a breakthrough today, and posted it as soon as it was done because you've all waited so long, so if you see any errors, let me know.

The reason this chapter was so hard to write was the content of it.

****TRIGGER WARNING**** This chapter deals with the lead up to, and almost immediate aftermath of a non-consensual sexual attack. If this could upset you, I have put in the usual line break where I feel the chapter starts getting too close to potential trigger scenes. The first one might be premature, but I'd rather be safe. The second is just a scene break, since the formatting in doesn't like my centred asterisk. The third is to show the end of the trigger content, but there is still several references to it afterwards, so if you think anything about this scenario might be upsetting, I'd stop reading the chapter at the first line break.

I know a lot of this might seem overly cautious, especially since I don't depict the event itself, but I do not want to upset any of my readers, so I will continue to put in possibly over the top warnings just in case. I don't think the line breaks are too intrusive, and it is then up to the individual reader to determine when or if they want to stop reading.

Moving away from the warning, I know this is one of my shorter chapters, but I don't think it could have worked any other way, and I'm hoping with this one out of the way I will be back to writing at the pace I'm used to. In my rough outline, the two chapters I've already done (back when chapter 3 was published) will be chapters 20 & 21, though they may possibly be 19 & 20, so those two should arrive a lot faster to make up for the wait.

I can't really say I hope you _enjoy_ the chapter, but I hope it's to my usual standard and it meets your expectations. Thanks to all of you for coming this far with it, in particular to those who have been reading from the start. You're all wonderful.

* * *

><p>Hawke slumped, eyes closed as the footsteps of the guards receded, the jingling of keys quieting as he attached them to his belt.<p>

Her back had stopped burning long before the forty lashes were up, but the pain had sunk deeper than her skin and every shift sent low, twisting throbs of pain through her.

'_At least it wasn't fifty with a cat o' nines,'_ she thought, breathing slowly through her nose and trying to stay as still as possible.

She knew too well that they would leave her with her skin in ribbons for a few hours, then send a healer in to make sure she didn't die on them. Her first imprisonment had taught her the routine quite well.

Sometimes, Hawke had half-contemplated dying out of spite.

She sighed, grimacing as she carefully eased her leg from underneath her before pins and needles could take hold. The bare skin of her ankle scraped across the rough, cold stone floor and she suppressed a shiver.

Right after Fenris had been sent away, still tense after relaying the order for forty lashes, the guards had taken the Champion armour off her before laying into her this time. No point in her wearing it for a few hours only to send it back out to the armourer's again. Still, the small knives she'd kept hidden on her these past few months had gone with it – they remained undiscovered or disregarded, but being without them for the first time in over three months made her feel more vulnerable than having her skin hanging in shreds from her muscle.

At least they'd let her keep the old, battered tunic and leggings provided to wear under it, even if the shirt was virtually backless now, held together by a few resilient strands. Being locked in a cell, wounded and naked and watched over by predominantly male guards – all of them sadists, down here – was a chilling prospect at the very least.

'_I'll see to the rest personally.'_ The skin between her shoulder blades would have tightened and crawled had there been enough of it left.

Jaw tense and eyes tight, Hawke wondered what other punishments the magister could be thinking up.

'_And why "personally"?'_

Maybe he just wanted to watch her in pain, add to the humiliation, but her mind kept skipping to the bodies in the holding caves bled to keep Hadriana alive. Keran in a cocoon of magic while Tahrone ranted, eyes gleaming. Huon standing over Nyssa's body, her blood seeping into his skin.

Her mother's fogged, empty eyes as she staggered forward, tripping on a decrepit wedding dress.

Hawke clenched her jaw and twisted her spine, stifling a groan as the bolt of pain wiped the image from her mind.

Danarius had specifically said he wanted her alive for the Masquerade, but Hawke was sure there were plenty of twisted blood magic experiments that wouldn't kill their subjects, but would cause unimaginable pain.

This, she reflected as she tried to curl her cold limbs up without jostling her back too much, was probably the worst time to have lost her daggers. Yes, she _could_ kill without them, but it would be far harder. A knife between the ribs or through the throat was far quicker and simpler than strangling a man to death.

Well, she had some of her muscle tone back. Not much, but enough to add a bit more force to any punches she may have to throw.

She sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek.

'_Face it; you won't be throwing any punches unless it's at a guard. If it's Danarius, you'll grit your teeth and bear it, because otherwise it might be Fenris or Vasilia or Enansal instead.'_

She gave a soft huff that might have been a laugh. Sometimes she thought Fenris was right. The more people you cared about, the more you hurt.

There were boots hitting the cobbled floor outside her cell, and a soft swish of robes and slippered feet brushing stone.

Hawke frowned. That hadn't been more than an hour, surely? Carefully, she tilted her head to look at the thin, dirt-clogged window. She knew the sun would be below the horizon by now, and the light struggling through was meagre, but it hadn't noticeably changed in intensity.

'_Maybe it's for someone else,'_ she thought, but the steps stopped outside her door and the guard admitted Fayth, her large dark eyes already wide with sympathy.

Hawke waited until the door had closed again and Fayth had knelt beside her before speaking. "That was nowhere near as long as usual, was it?"

Fayth shook her head.

"Master has sent for you," she explained.

Hawke's heart relocated itself to her throat. "Do you know what's going to happen?" She asked, studying a brick in the wall instead of the mage's face as healing magic swept across her back.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Fayth's head shake again.

"No. But his bodyguard is outside, waiting to take you to him."

"Fenris?" Hawke asked sharply, twisting to look at the mage before shuddering and biting back a groan as her back seared at the movement.

Fayth murmured a reprimand before nodding.

Hawke frowned.

Why had they sent Fenris away, only for him to return so quickly? Unless Danarius had only just decided what her punishment would be.

At least it would be him though, and not a guard. Maybe Fenris would be able to tell her something of what to expect.

Hawke went through cycles of gnawing on her lip, noticing and forcing herself to stop, then forgetting herself and starting again as Fayth's magic shifted from her back to her cheek. Finally it eased away entirely and the mage sat back, declaring her healed.

Hawke sat up gingerly, rolling and stretching her shoulders and back. The muscle moved smoothly and there were no pulls, but the bone-deep ache had yet to abate. She knew from experience that would take a few days, but being able to move without her back leaking blood was a relief.

Still, Fayth helped her to her feet and steadied her when her remaining blood rushed to her head, clouding her vision and holding sound at bay from her ears.

Sure enough, Fenris was waiting outside, pacing in the narrow corridor and glaring at the floor. He stopped when he heard the cell door opening, pausing and looking up as Hawke and Fayth slowly shuffled out of the cell.

He stepped forward and gripped her hand; wrapping his free arm around her waist and letting her lean into him as she blinked the kaleidoscope patterns from her eyes.

"I'll be fine, just give me a minute," she muttered, pleased to find that she could talk comfortably again, but Fenris just squeezed her hand and otherwise ignored her half-hearted attempts to stand unsupported without swaying. Fayth made sure she was steady before stepping away, managing a small smile before bowing to the guards and scuttling back to the barracks.

Fenris and Hawke made slow progress out of the dungeon and into the darkening courtyard as the early Kingsway twilight fell, Hawke becoming steadier with each step. Even when her vision had cleared and her hearing returned to its normal distance and clarity, he didn't let go.

That made her study him from behind her hair, her eyes jumping over his face. Fenris didn't usually do prolonged contact, not unless it was absolutely necessary. There was that one time Isabela had done her leg in on Sundermount, they were out of potions and Anders hadn't been with them, so Fenris had – _very_ reluctantly – become her crutch for the walk back to Kirkwall, but he had been visibly bristling the whole time.

This easy contact was odd. She'd tried subtly pulling away, only for Fenris to step closer again.

She gave up and started worrying instead. Maybe this was his way of silently giving her moral support before they reached Danarius – which probably meant he had something horrific planned.

Her back prickled again, but this time it was with sweat, not blood.

"Fenris?"

"Hawke?" He still sounded himself, and when she looked up at him there was no tightness around his eyes or at the corners of his mouth, his brow smooth and unmarked.

"What- do you know what Danarius is going to do?"

He looked away, and the tension finally appeared. Somehow, she relaxed at the sight even as her skin tried to crawl off her spine. He looked more like himself when he was worried.

"I am not certain. I just know I'm to bring you to his quarters."

Hawke groaned as they made their way up the steps, Fenris' right hand still pressing against the small of her back.

"His workshop?" Blood magic. He was going to use her in some twisted experiment that was probably going to hurt worse than being impaled by the Arishok.

Fenris' eyes slid away from hers as they passed into the cool entrance hall.

Hawke hesitated, but he didn't say any more.

"Fenris?"

He glanced at her through his hair, his eyes shadowed as they darted away again.

"I cannot say."

"Well that's a nice change," Hawke said, managing a smile even if it didn't quite cover the nerves knotting in her gut.

He just looked puzzled.

Hawke raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to realise, but had to elaborate when he just shook his head.

"Usually it's me saying that," she said, her smiled faltering and her eyes flickering between his. "Are you alright? You seem... distracted."

He ducked his head again, lifting one shoulder.

"Perhaps a little. Whatever the Master intends for you, I doubt it will be pleasant."

Hawke hunched her shoulders for a moment, relaxing them quickly when the skin on her back stretched and protested.

"Yes, well, I'm trying not to think about that too much," she said, her eyes darting away to study the ground. She bit her tongue when she caught her own tell, and waited for Fenris to call her on it.

Nothing. A quick glance at him through her hair showed him watching her, but there was no suspicion or resignation in his face the way there usually was when he knew she was lying.

Unease slid down her back, leaving a greasy trail that stayed colder than the rest of her.

She kept quiet, letting him lead her through the halls as her eyes unfocused.

If he was this rattled, then whatever Danarius had planned must be gruesome. She didn't quite believe Fenris when he said he didn't know what the magister was going to do. His evasiveness when she asked seemed to mean they wouldn't be going to the mage's workshop, but where else in Danarius' quarters would they go?

His office, maybe. Perhaps this punishment would be 'official' like that... but it had been a personal slight, and only herself and Fenris had witnessed it. What would he gain from publically punishing her when the slaves didn't know the exact cause? Although he could just tell them.

They passed between two guards stationed in front of a pair of double doors and Hawke blinked hard to focus. She wanted her wits about her while she was in Danarius' quarters.

Fenris still gripped her left hand with his, his right arm wrapped around her waist to hurry her along. Right now it felt more restrictive than supportive.

"I'm not going to run, Fenris," she snapped, digging her heels in to slow them down from marching pace. They strode straight past the workshop door, left ajar for the cleaning slaves.

"Master Danarius doesn't like waiting," he said, his grip tightening enough to half-lift her, propped against his side, her feet glancing off the floor in failed attempts to regain her footing.

* * *

><p>Hawke's heart jumped then carried on at a nervous canter.<p>

Her left arm was pinned between them, her hand crushed in his and manipulated into lifting her own weight. Her right was too far out to do anything other than maybe punch him in throat if it came to that.

'_Sorry.'_

Lips peeled back from her teeth, Hawke swung her left leg in front of his right and kicked back, using her right foot's temporary contact with the floor to put some force behind it.

Fenris tripped over her leg, jarring it and staggering, his grip loosening instinctively as the marble floor pitched up towards his face.

Hawke's feet hit the floor and braced as she yanked her left arm free and lashed out backwards with her elbow, catching Fenris square on the forehead as he tried to recover.

Hawke pivoted on her right leg, turning to face Fenris and putting her left leg behind her as she kept her hands up, loosely curled.

He'd recovered his balance, his right hand coming away from his brow where a bruise would form later. His eyes were flat and odd sparks of lyrium kept running through his veins.

Hawke glared back, even as adrenaline seemed to steal her stomach and alter the structure of her throat.

"What is wrong with-"

His hand, still suspended in shock half-way between his head and his side. His _right_ hand, with the red banner tied over his gauntlet, bright and treacherous against the grey and black.

Hawke could feel the skin on her face tightening and cooling, even as her heart bucked in her chest.

"Fenris, what are you doing?" She couldn't remember if her voice had ever been that soft and scared before. Soft, yes, scared, maybe, but never at the same time. Soft usually meant sad, sometimes angry. Fear was loud and brash, to hide it.

"Obeying orders." Fenris didn't smile like that. He just did not smile that way, open and guileless and-

Looking past her.

"Well done, pet."

The words brought a familiar cramping with them; all of her muscles locking from her feet up. She could see, in her peripheral vision, the faint light of an activated glyph on the floor.

"Bring her in. Restrain her." There was a whisper of robes against the floor, and the heavier sigh of displaced air as one of the doors to Danarius' chambers was pulled open.

Fenris nodded and stepped forward, moving around her. Even his movements were wrong, now – too smooth, too confident, none of his usual hunched shoulders or scuffing his feet against the floor.

He grabbed her wrists from behind, and as soon as her muscles started to relax he pulled them tight behind her. He used his grip to steer her around and towards the door, yanking them higher up her back when she tried to drag her feet or kick out at him again.

Danarius was standing just inside the threshold, one guard holding the door open while the other clutched a half-drawn whip uncertainly as Fenris hauled her past them.

Hawke set her jaw against the pain before slumping, letting her legs fold and all her weight hang from her wrists. Fenris staggered, trying to keep his balance as Hawke dragged her feet beneath her and shoved up, her head cracking against his chin as he pitched forward and she lunged back.

He grunted and his grip slipped. She yanked her left free and twisted right, unwinding the hold he had on her and lashing out with her left, using the momentum of the turn to add force to the punch. She pulled her right hand free and stepped on Fenris' forward foot as his head snapped back. She shoved him back with both arms and sent him sprawling before throwing herself to the left, ramming her forearm against Danarius' throat and pinning him against the wall. She had the fleeting satisfaction of seeing a bolt of shock flash across the magister's face.

"What have you done to him?"

He still had that flat, dead smile.

"Nothing at all," he said as the guards landed on her back, dragging her away, and she could feel Fenris' gauntleted hands helping, wrapping around her neck and waist as the guards immobilised her arms.

"You, my dear, will not have the same luxury," he said as the guards carried her further into the room.

* * *

><p>The clock Fenris trudged past said half past midnight, and he was only just getting back from the meeting with the masquerade's security and other staff. He should have gone this morning, really, but Danarius had arranged and alternative time so he didn't have to reschedule with Tiberius and Larentia. The look in the magister's eyes when he'd told him had been a bit odd; the smile out of place, but Fenris hadn't said anything. It wasn't his place, after all. He wished he had gone earlier, since spending nearly five hours at the end of the day memorising faces and names, and those of the reserve staff, was exhausting.<p>

Five hours, and distracted the entire time by the image of Hawke standing between two of the prison guards, slouching and bored except for the tension in her jaw as they began unbuckling the Champion armour.

He hesitated in front of the slaves' passage in Danarius' quarters, wondering if he should see how she was.

No. It was late, and she was probably asleep already. She most likely wouldn't appreciate him waking her up, particularly after a flogging. Fenris himself made it this far on muscle memory alone, his eyes drifting shut only to snap open as he walked. He could check on her tomorrow, during training.

The doors to Danarius' chambers were closed, so Fenris headed straight into his own little side-room, too tired to close the door behind him. His thin pallet rarely looked comfortable, but this was one of those nights when he'd be grateful to sleep on a stone floor. He sank down on it, closing his eyes for a moment before lifting a hand to start picking at the straps of the opposite gauntlet.

The adjoining door between his and Danarius' rooms was closed over, but left ajar as usual. He wanted privacy, then. A soft sound slid through the door, and Fenris paused in removing his vambrace.

Sobbing. A new pleasure slave, then. The older ones were usually willing or resigned.

His mouth tightened, and he returned to unbuckling his armour a little louder than before, even though that didn't drown out the voice from the other room.

He balanced his vambrace on his knee while he untied the red sash from his wrist, hiding the band inside the armour before setting it on the armour stand. The voice was quieter now, almost inaudible.

He had just hung his breastplate beside the vambraces when one of the main doors to Danarius' chamber opened.

Standing in front of the armour stand placed him in front of the doorway, and the movement as someone shuffled past drew his eye before he could check the action.

He froze with his hands on the top clasp of his tunic, staring.

A small part of his mind realised instantly, and shut down the rest, letting it barrel on in confusion as to why Hawke was leaving Danarius' rooms, why she was limping, why her breathing was loud and messy like she'd been the one crying-

The rest of his mind caught up right as Hawke looked up and saw him.

Her face was bruised, her lips split and swollen. Blood crusted around her nose and mouth, and one eye was starting to swell.

There was a moment where either moved, staring across at each other. Hawke had that odd stillness that made Fenris think she had stopped breathing.

His mind felt blank, empty yet buzzing. He had to say something, but what _could_ he say, or do?

His mouth opened without any words to fill it, but the movement made Hawke jerk back, eyes too wide. She turned sharply and began rushing down the corridor, head down, shoulders tense but shaking.

Fenris jolted, his jaw clicking shut as he halted himself in the motion of going after her.

Some part of him was straining forward, wanting to follow and do _something_. The rest hesitated.

She was hurt, humiliated. Would she want him chasing after her, even in what would probably be a botched attempt to comfort or support her?

He hissed; biting his tongue and raking his hair back from his marked brow in frustration.

Was anything the right thing to do, in this situation?

With a soft curse, he loped out of the room after her, dropping down to a walk several metres from her. From here he could still see the way her shoulders were locked, hunching up, the thin muscles standing out against her bones through the back of her ruined, bloody shirt.

"Hawke," he said, slowing almost to a stop.

She jerked to a halt, her arms flying from where they'd hugged her torso up to a guard as she spun to face him, eyes wide and bright.

Fenris held his hands up, showing they were empty and he was as unarmed as he could be.

"I-"

"You-" she said, and though her voice and body were shaking, she still spoke with a snarl, "you stay away from me."

Fenris paused, what he had planned to say evaporating.

Wanting to be left alone he understood, but this was hostile, scared.

Accusatory.

"Hawke?"

She was backing away, but her hands – the knuckles bruised, split and swollen – were still raised, the fingers loosely curled.

"Don't come near me, don't _touch_ me," she spat, her eyes still showing too much white, but hard and furious beneath the fear.

Fenris' brows furrowed, his mouth open as it waited for words he couldn't form.

Something had made her scared of him.

"What did I do, Hawke?" What could it have been? She'd seemed fine when he left her with the guards, and he'd been away from the estate since then.

Danarius might have said something, but what could he have said or done that would make Hawke terrified of him, he didn't know.

Her lips peeled back with a breath that might have been a sob or a laugh. "You know _exactly_ what you did."

He stared at her, even as his mind rattled through the past few days for anything he could have done or said that would have upset her this much.

Nothing. Besides, this was Hawke – she would have reacted straight away, not waited until now, surely.

There was nothing.

Fenris' hands dropped slowly as he shook his head, even as frustration started to twist and burn in his chest. "I don't, Hawke. I'm sorry for whatever I have done, but I _don't know what it is_."

"How could you _not_ know?" She leaned forward with the shout, her fists dropping. Her eyes were shining, still too wide. She was shaking, her whole body quivering, but her guard had dropped.

Fenris shook his head again and stepped forward, reaching for her, trying to think of something to say only to abort the words before he could give them shape.

"Hawke-"

Something solid cracked against his cheek and he staggered sideways into the wall, lyrium sparking as he caught himself against the marble and looked up.

Hawke stood just within arm's reach, cradling her right hand in her left, her eyes huge and glazed, staring. She was breathing too quickly, the sounds shaky. Her legs trembled, jumping as though she was rebelling against a paralysis glyph.

Fenris shifted to push away from the wall, one hand lifting to feel the bruised bone of his cheek and eye socket.

The slow movement made Hawke flinch back, then blink and focus on him. She drew a deeper breath, steadier but faster, then took a single step back. When Fenris hesitated, she turned fully and ran down the corridor.

* * *

><p>Fenris closed his eyes and let his breath out, slumping back against the wall. His back ached and his face throbbed.<p>

Those he understood. What he couldn't fathom was why having Hawke fear or hate him made his chest hurt.

Something inside him, something adrift that was grieving and scared and bitter and _furious_, wanted to stay leaning against the wall indefinitely. But the dull pain was just insistent enough to drive him out of the stupor that part of him wanted to stay in, and the weariness in his legs finally made him straighten up and turn for his room with an aching sigh.

Danarius was watching him.

The old mage stood behind the doors of his chambers, with one open enough so that half of the man could be seen. The deep blue housecoat was slung around him, loosely tied.

The one eye Fenris could see was flat and creased, the half of his mouth turned up in satisfaction.

"I trust there will be no more distractions, Fenris. You will train her, and no more." That smile flashed again, freezing Fenris in place. "Sleep well, pet."

The door closed.

Fenris drifted back to his own room and sank down onto the edge of his mattress. He dropped his head into his hands and stayed there until he could trust himself not to follow Hawke or kill his master while the mage slept.


	19. Chapter 19

Hey everyone, glad this wasn't _too_ long a wait this time. I've been busy helping set up a writing retreat/holiday in Ibiza, and pretty much anyone has the chance to come (we've also got a competition on to win one of two places). I'll put the link in my profile if any of you are interested and otherwise keep this short. I think this is allowed by as the ad isn't my primary reason for posting, but I want to play it safe.

****CHAPTER WARNING**** Due to the nature of the last chapter, this one deals with the after-effects, and so the whole thing might be a potential trigger. I don't think there is anything too strong in it, but I will be honest when I say I'm not certain. The most iffy part, from my perspective, is the section early on in all italics. If you think this will affect you, all I can say is to read carefully, and I hope no one is made too uncomfortable. As ever, if anyone thinks there should be a break at any point in particular, let me know and I'll get it set up as soon as possible, if not immediately. I'll admit, I was dreading writing this chapter and the last, and I put off researching the topic until I had to. That said, I did my usual level of research, which is very thorough, so I hope this chapter portrays the after-effects realistically. The last thing I want to do is offend any of my readers.*****

This is another one that I can't exactly wish you will enjoy, but we have progress and there's more interaction between Hawke and Fenris, which is something. As ever, you're all wonderful, and let me know if I've made any typos or the like. Next chapters shouldn't be too long (she says) as they're mostly written, and a lot of the editing is done. I'm cautiously predicting some time this week for chapter 20, but don't hold me to it, please :P This job is time-consuming and usually leaves me with cabbage instead of a brain.

Love you all, and the usual disclaimer (which I've forgotten recently) applies.

* * *

><p>This time when Hawke woke with a scream trapped in her throat, the others didn't come to help her.<p>

She sat up, staring around the dim room as she scraped damp hair off her face with a shaking hand. Vasilia was helping pull Enansal to her feet, steadying the pregnant elf. They both gave her small, stilted smiles, not quite looking at her, not even when Vasilia offered to get her a glass of water in a whisper.

Hawke shook her head and dropped her eyes from the day-old bruise on Enansal's high cheekbone. At least they'd listened to her and waited for her to be truly awake before coming close to her this time. She would hate to have hit anyone again. She was just relieved that it had been the elf's face she'd struck, and not her swollen stomach. She had a feeling the woman wouldn't have forgiven her as quickly as she had if that had been the case.

"You ready?" Enansal shuffled over to squeeze Hawke's shoulder as the human woman rose.

Hawke shrugged and nodded. "I guess so. The work won't do itself, right?"

Holding horses in place while the farrier tended to their hooves was more absorbing that the usual household chores, at least. A mop didn't try to jump out of your hands or eat your hair, after all. Hawke spent the time talking to the animals, idly rubbing their necks and noses.

Titan, Danarius' lead horse, was a wonderful distraction. He kept trying to kick the farrier, then took to pulling loose of Hawke and prancing around the courtyard, baring his teeth and pinning his ears back whenever the farrier came within ten feet of him.

Herding horses definitely stopped her from thinking.

She wished she could stay in that state of single-minded focus constantly. It helped to push everything else – escape, Kirkwall, Bethany, Aveline, Varric and the others – away. Helped her to forget.

Then evening approached, and Hawke trudged towards the training ring. Towards him.

Fenris wouldn't let her forget.

For three hours every day, she couldn't stop thinking. She had to think when they sparred, and thinking meant remembering.

_Getting drunk in his mansion, giggling uncontrollably at the expression on his face when he realised the third bottle was drained dry._

_Bethany patching him up on Sundermount after he stepped in the way of a blow meant for Hawke._

_Shoving him back against the wall, her spine still twinging but ignored in favour of coaxing that sound out of him again._

_Straining against his grip, twisting and _begging _while Danarius moaned and __**moved.**_

She didn't pull her strikes during sparring anymore.

He was attacking one of the training dummies when he arrived. Both of its arms were lying on the floor, and as she approached its head went sailing after them.

When he turned to face her, the poorly-concealed hurt and confusion in his face that she'd become accustomed to when he looked at her was still there. She turned her back on him as she always did when she saw it and instead walked to the weapons table. She was aware of him following her, to swap out his live blade for a practice one. He'd started doing that the day after-

Stop.

He didn't have the right to be hurt, she thought as she scanned for her usual daggers. He knew what he had done, even if some small voice insisted that he wouldn't do that, and that when he'd asked her, he'd been genuine. Fenris was brilliant at masking his emotions, at smoothing out every trace – but faking them?

Hawke shrugged to herself, masking the movement as testing the weight and balance of her weapons. So he'd learned. It had been him, she was certain. Even the smell of him had been right – leather and polish and something she hadn't been able to place until she arrived into Tevinter. Tropical heat, like the heart of a jungle.

"Hawke?" He was quiet, tentative, resigned. She never acknowledged his attempts to talk. Today was no different – she just walked away, rolling her shoulders and stretching her arms, abandoning him at the table.

She watched him from behind her hair as she stretched; saw his shoulders slump and his head dip, his hands clench then relax. He swapped his weapon with heavy movements, though none of it seemed to be from physical discomfort. He must have had the hand she'd broken yesterday healed.

There was some satisfaction in that, and she shoved any guilt out of her mind. He deserved it. He deserved worse.

He wasn't the person she'd known back in Kirkwall, so she had no reason to feel guilty for hurting him back.

It still didn't stop a small twinge in her gut whenever she remembered the swelling, bruised lump forming over the thin bones in his hand.

She shook herself as he approached, settling back into her fighting stance and struggling again for the focus that eluded her around him.

She barely waited for Fenris to nod that he was ready before she lunged forward, sweeping for his throat with her left and stabbing to his gut with her right.

He parried her right and side-stepped her left, stepping inside her widened guard and slamming the pommel of his sword into her tensed stomach.

They both backed off, needing the space, Hawke's teeth already creaking against each other.

With her focus, he'd stolen all of her patience as well. Flat-out aggression didn't work against him, it never had. It didn't stop her trying, even though the frustration just led to more and more mistakes. It wasn't cathartic, but it helped to throw all of her anger at something that wouldn't break under it easily.

He could still be relied on for that, at least.

By the end of the three hours, Hawke was limping and favouring her right arm after a quick, solid counter Fenris had delivered. The elf himself had a discoloured cheek and was holding his freshly-healed hand stiffly, trying to avoid using it.

When tenth bell rang out, Hawke turned on her heel and towards the training table to leave her knives.

Usually Fenris let her go. He would abort whatever strike he was considering and just let her walk away.

"Hawke."

Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn't turn. It was the first time he'd tried to talk after training in days.

She didn't hear him follow her, didn't hear the near-silent brush of bare feet over the sound of the guards talking, the blacksmith moving things in his smithy.

She felt her sleeve closing in against her arm, the precursor to hesitant fingers.

Before his hand fully closed, Hawke spun, reversed her grip on her dagger, and slammed the pommel into the heart of the bruise on Fenris' cheekbone.

He staggered back, biting down on a curse as his hand shot from her arm to his face. When he managed to force his eyes open through the pain and numbness spreading down his jaw, Hawke was staring at him, eyes cold.

She held his gaze for a long moment, unblinking, before dropping her daggers to clatter against the ground.

She turned and left without a word.

It felt like the days immediately after the execution. Hiding whenever she saw him in corridors, all but running away in case he saw her.

There were differences this time. Her lack of confusion, for one. Now she knew _exactly_ why she was hiding from him.

He didn't try to follow her, unlike before. When she did accidentally meet his eyes, all she would see was the same confusion and hurt as before, but also resignation.

It was driving her insane.

At least he was keeping away. They hadn't been alone together since, and Hawke wanted to keep it that way. He wouldn't do anything while people were around, she was sure.

'_You were sure he wouldn't hold you down while you screamed and begged, but he did.'_

Hawke jerked her head, biting down hard on her lip to dismiss the thought. The skin was only just healing from the last time she'd drawn blood, and the scab snapped beneath her teeth, edging them with the taste of diluted copper.

Wiping her mouth and swearing, she went back to restoring the armless, beheaded training dummy in the dim twilight.

With a vicious punch, more straw spurted out of the torso-length tear in the cloth and the dummy deflated even more.

Hawke sighed. The whole thing needed replacing, really. Her aching knuckles only proved that.

She trudged over to the outdoor storage hut, beside the blacksmiths as a light autumn rain started to fall.

As she went, she glanced towards the gates.

It was late, there was only the graveyard shift guard. It could be so _easy_...

And if you're caught? What do you think Danarius will do to you then?

Most recaptured slaves were branded on the forehead with their owner's house crest. Hawke doubted she'd get the same treatment.

She shook her head and let her eyes slide away, refusing to look at the gilded gates again until she was inside the storage hut. The rain bounced off the wooden roof, falling harder. At least she'd missed the worst of it.

With a sigh, she lit a candle and set it on one of the shelves before pulling a sack out of the pile and breaking into one of the two bales of straw. Rubbing her eyes, she sat on the floor and began stuffing handfuls of straw into the rough bag.

It was maybe half-full when the door handle twisted, first one way, then another and repeated.

Rather than stand up, Hawke felt around and found a trowel. Without really looking up she lobbed it at the door, where it hit once and bounced to the floor.

The door opened with a short symphony of creaks, and the slave entered with a heavy, exhausted sigh.

Hawke's head jerked up to look and her whole body froze, Fenris' mirroring hers as he stared down at her, one hand still on the door handle with the other paused on his head where it had been shaking the rain from his hair.

Hawke jolted to her feet as Fenris took a step into the hut and held his hands up, the door drifting closed behind him.

"I didn't know you were here," he said quietly. The bruise on his cheekbone was still there.

Hawke wondered why he hadn't had _that_ healed. "Well, I am. Get out," she said, picking her way over the sack and straw to a clear stretch of floor.

He lowered his eyes, sweeping across the floor and lower shelves, but took a small step forward. "I'm not going to hurt you, Hawke. Can we speak, please?"

"No." She backed away to the far side of the room, trying to stop the shaking that made her knees too loose and numb and her hands insubstantial.

Fenris sighed, scanning the ceiling for help, before meeting her eyes again and slowly pulling his gauntlets off without bothering to undo the straps. He dropped them to the floor and held his bare hands up to reassure her.

"You didn't need them to hurt me before," she spat around the chunk of granite in her throat.

He flinched at that, his eyes lowering to look at his own hands as they closed, fingers brushing against his palms.

"Hawke, please," he said, his hands opening in an additional, silent appeal.

"What do you want, Fenris?" It was more of a snarled demand than a question, the edges frayed with desperation.

"For you to listen. Please," he said again, because that was the only way he could think of to gentle words that should have been an order into a plea.

"There's nothing to say." It should have been cold, but it came out as thick instead, her voice clogged. He stood in front of the door, so she took the only other way out and turned away with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at their reflections in the small, barred window. She saw his shoulders drop, his head shake and dip.

"There is. I don't- no, I _do_ know what Danarius did to you. What I don't know is why you think I was involved. Hawke, I wasn't even in the estate." All his striving for gentleness, and her shoulders and back were tensing the longer he spoke.

"Shut up." It was sharp, snapped, her shoulders hunched close to her ears.

"I was at the Archon's palace, memorising the face of every guard and slave for _five hours_. I left right after leaving you in the dungeon-"

"I said _shut up!_" She spun, her arms dropping into fists at her sides.

Fenris might have listened a week ago, but that was the first time he'd seen anything other than apathy or fury in her eyes since he'd left her with the guards. There was anger there, yes, but also desperation and grief and pleading.

As much as she might hate it, she'd formed a reality of what she thought happened that let her rage and cry and try to push it aside and move on. If he broke that, she would have to learn to cope all over again.

He clenched his jaw and barrelled on, speaking over her. Better to cope with the truth than a lie.

"I was half the city away, and I had only been back for a few minutes before you walked out of that room. _I wasn't there, Hawke_," in the quiet it sounded like a shout. She had her hands over her ears and was shaking her head, but at the last she freed herself and turned on him.

"_Then who was?_" They both stopped at the volume, aware that if they were any louder they might be heard. "I saw you, Fenris, so if you weren't there, who was?" She was quieter, quenched and trembling.

He slowly shook his head, his mouth open but silent. A pale reflection from the corner of his eye drew his head up. It was his lyrium reflected in the window, but that initial glimpse jarred loose a memory.

"A demon," he murmured, repeating it with more force when Hawke shook her head and scoff. "No, listen to me. I've seen them, Hawke. Two desire demons. I _know_ that Danarius likes to use them to torture his slaves," he tried to flatten the snarl in his voice, but didn't quite succeed. "They like to take on the appearance of others. People close to the one they're toying with," he said, unable to hold her eyes without seeing the demon wearing her skin, shedding that fine red robe with the crest over her heart. The same crest that was on the shield.

"Why should I believe you, Fenris?" She barked out a laugh and held her arms out, gesturing to herself. "Look where trusting you got me."

His head shot up at that, grabbing her gaze and hanging onto it as he stepped forward. "Do you truly believe I could do something like this? Is that what you honestly think of me?"

She was closing in on herself again, her hands raising up in front of her as she huddled towards the back wall. Her head was shaking, her lips pressed tight together, eyes lowered. "I have to. What else can I think?"

"You can believe me," he said, stepping forward again, ducking his head to try and meet her eyes.

Her head shook harder and she closed her eyes, backing right into the wall, pushing her hands out to keep him away. "No, I can't!"

"Why?" He couldn't rein in the frustration, not fully, but his hands were gentle when they reached out to touch hers.

She jerked away from him, but turned to face him with too-wide eyes and a shout that the rain nearly drowned out. "Because it's too convenient!"

Fenris hesitated, slowly pulling back to give her more space. "Too...?"

Hawke shook her head, hugging her elbows again. "You think I don't _want_ to believe that it was a demon? I do, I wish that I could trust you, but this can't- I can't- " her breathing hitched.

Fenris could see her hands trembling despite their painful grip on her arms. He started to step forward, lifting a hand to offer some sort of comfort, but she drew away and he let his hand drop.

"I can't risk this happening again." Her teeth were chattering, but the sound was lost in the pounding against the roof. "I can't risk trusting you again, not without proof."

Fenris bowed his head, sighing through his nose as he gazed at the floor with distant eyes. "Proof. It would be possible to sneak into Danarius' quarters, to try and find them." He said, glancing up.

Hawke had blanched, and was shaking her head fast enough for her hair to whip the wall behind her.

Fenris held his hands up, shaking his own head in agreement. "The only other option I can see is if the demon made a mistake. Sometimes they don't get details quite right. Was there anything that struck you as odd, or out of place?"

Hawke let herself go still, studying the floor before lifting one shoulder.

"Your behaviour was... strange. Before, I mean. When you picked me up from the dungeons." She gave a small snort. "But everything you did was wrong, so that hardly matters."

Fenris dipped his head, shifting on the spot as he stared at the ground. "Agreed," he said, barely audible. He lifted his hands from his sides for a moment, before letting them fall back with a helpless thud. "It would have to be something that looked different, then. Some physical mark they didn't get right. Were there any?"

Hawke paused, staring into middle-distance, before shaking her head. "None come to mind."

Fenris sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. It was still wet, and stayed swept back save for a few rebellious strands. "Then I don't- Hawke?"

She'd stepped forward, staring at his exposed brow.

Fenris raised a hand towards it, wondering if there was a leaf or something stuck to it, but Hawke waved his hand away and he let it fall.

Her forefinger traced over the markings, and Fenris was thrown back to that first bizarre meeting in the courtyard, a few yards from where they stood.

'_What is it?'_

'_They're new. Those ones.'_

"Hawke?" He asked again, his eyes softening when he saw hers shining and saw her throat working to swallow properly.

"They weren't there. When it happened, you- it- it was from before we were captured. From when we were in Kirkwall. That's what you looked like." She gave an odd little huff of breath and blinked hard, her hands darting up to drive the heels of her palms against her eyes. "Why didn't I see it?" Her voice was slightly muffled by hands, hair and direction, but Fenris could still hear the frustration and grief in the thickness of it.

He bowed his head, crushed his eyes closed. "Sometimes that's what hurts more. That's all they care about. I'm sorry, Hawke." He wished there was something other than that he could say. All he could do was repeat it, and hope she understood. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head but didn't answer as her shoulders started to hitch.

Fenris hesitated. Just because she logically knew it hadn't been him, it didn't mean she could just go back to the way she had treated him before.

At least try.

He lifted his hand, paused, then continued when Hawke didn't knock him away. In small, stalling jumps, he raised his hand until it hovered over her shoulder. When he finally let it fall, Hawke didn't move into him, but she didn't pull away either.

It was all he could give her, and all she could accept. Right now, that was enough.


	20. Chapter 20

Hey guys. Not quite 'this week', but it's still August at least. Yay?

This is a chapter that has been written, almost in its entirety, since chapter 3 or something else ridiculously early. I've done a fair bit of editing since the plot has evolved in my head since the early days, but most of this chapter is as it was when I first wrote it. As a result, it might not flow as well as the others, nor flow from the last chapter very well. I personally think it does, but I'm too close to it, so if you guys think it could flow a bit better, let me know and I'll see what I can do.

WARNING: mostly mild this time, some references to the two previous chapters but its mostly coping mechanisms. As ever, if you think this warrants line breaks as a warning, please do let me know. Also a warning for violence, but that's to be expected in this fic.

This is actually half of a chapter, but the full this was so long I split it into two. So what is now chapter 21 (also written at chapter 3) should be posted soon, after editing. Might be a few days (or weeks. This is me, after all). I will try to be quick though.

So, enjoy, please give me any feedback you deem necessary (even if it's just 'you spelt [x] wrong'), and please don't kill me for the ending.

* * *

><p>The days after their talk were... odd, but steadily becoming less so. Hawke still tensed when she caught sight of Fenris or Danarius in the corridors, but with the former she made herself relax and force a smile. When she saw the magister, she was very good at slinking away, praying she went unnoticed.<p>

It was an odd sort of balance, but Fenris was grateful for it. When it came to their first training session, it was a relief to leave with merely bruises and tired muscles instead of fractures. She still hit hard, but she pulled her strikes if it looked like he couldn't block on time and she might cause him serious injury.

Hawke was just relieved that when she froze, she could remind herself that she could trust him after all.

Danarius hadn't called for her since, barely acknowledged her the few times he called on her to serve wine or help Fenris guard a meeting.

The only time she had doubted her relative safety was the first time the magister had seen her after she and Fenris had talked. It was just passing in a corridor, Fenris guarding the mage and Hawke passing to dust a dining room.

Danarius had glanced between the two slaves, eyes narrowed. Hawke had walked faster, head down, the dusting cloth keeping one hand dry while the other turned clammy.

Nothing had happened, and the mage had all but ignored her since.

She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not.

Work still helped; but it was easier to see it as just a job again instead of a distraction from her own thoughts. Sometimes her work left her with plenty of time to think, and she didn't cringe away from the possibility.

Hawke sighed, dropping down the last few steps of the ladder.

Although her back ached at the end, restocking the wine cellar was one of the jobs that Hawke didn't mind. It was often quiet, she was unsupervised, and she had the advantage of being able to read. Even disobeying that tiny rule gave her a small surge of satisfaction. Somehow, reading wine labels in the cellar had become synonymous with rebellion in her mind. She tried not to think too much on what that meant.

She was prying the lid off of the sixth when she heard the cellar door open and footsteps pacing down.

Hawke didn't pay them any mind – only the slaves came down here, to fetch a bottle of wine for Danarius; or a crate for his guests.

Fenris might occasionally appear, if Danarius wanted to summon someone. The possibility didn't unnerve her the way it would have done just ten days ago. A small flinch still shut her eyes and tightened her grip on a bottle briefly, but she was able to push the reaction away, reason it out.

Fenris wasn't at fault. He had new scars, and he wasn't at fault.

Shaking her head firmly, she reached up to one of the higher shelves, slotting a bottle of fine Antivan red into an empty rack when the footsteps turned into her aisle.

Just to satisfy her curiosity, and to utter a polite greeting to a fellow slave, Hawke glanced in their direction, the hint of a welcoming smile at her mouth.

The footsteps stopped as her expression froze.

Mage robes. Burnt orange hair, pale skin, and those dark green eyes that were the only feature she shared with her brother.

Hawke's eyes went cold, her mouth tightening into a thin line.

"Varania," she acknowledged coolly, turning and continuing to put the bottles away with slightly more violence than necessary.

The elvhen woman stepped forward, boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Champion." Varania was quiet, almost subdued.

Hawke didn't look at her, didn't trust herself to. She tightened her jaw and went back to stocking shelves, speaking over her shoulder instead. "Should you be here? I was under the impression that I wasn't supposed to see or speak to you."

"You aren't. However, I was... curious. I didn't realise Danarius would bring you as well as Leto. Be-"

"Fenris," Hawke said without thinking. She heard Varania's hesitation and ploughed on. "His name is Fenris. Didn't you hear him back in Kirkwall?"

"I- I did. But he has always been Leto to me. It is a hard habit to break. You may not believe me, but I do still think of him as my brother." The tentativeness and vulnerability in her voice made Hawke grind her teeth. She snorted instead of saying or doing something she might regret later.

Varania paused again, then spoke in a voice that lifted at the end of each sentence. "Danarius won't know we've spoken. You can't tell him, and I won't. I have no reason to."

"How generous," Hawke muttered, shoving another bottle into the rack. The soft chink of glass against wood made her glance around.

Varania had pulled a bottle of Nevarran white wine from the rack, and studied it briefly before replacing it. Her face was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, and she fidgeted when she let go of the bottle. "I'm his apprentice now, you know." She spoke quickly, throwing the words out of her.

Hawke turned away again. "I'm aware. How nice for you."

That silence. Hawke knew the elf was still knotting her fingers in her robes, even if she couldn't hear anything.

"I see Leto occasionally, you know. I make sure he doesn't see me – Magister Danarius doesn't want to risk me being a trigger for his memory – but I... I keep an eye on him. He seems well."

Maker, was the girl _appealing_ to her? Hawke's hands twitched against a bottle neck, before imagining the green glass was pale skin. That helped a little.

When Varania realised Hawke wasn't going to speak, she took a breath and tried again.

"Do- do you see him? Le- Fenris, I mean."

Well, there was a second family resemblance. Persistence. Or sheer pig-headedness, in Fenris' case. The thought made Hawke's lips twitch for a moment.

She wondered briefly if she could get away with completely ignoring a direct question from a magister's apprentice. Probably not. Varania might say she wouldn't mention the meeting, but how easy it would be to lie to Danarius and make it look as though Hawke had initiated the conversation. Better keep her happy. "I train with him every day. Master's orders."

"Oh. That- that's good." It was almost a question.

Hawke shrugged, stretching to reach the next row up of the rack.

"He never made our lives better." She was back to the quick blurts, speaking as though she needed to get the words out as quickly as possible. "Being free was worse than being a slave. He never asked us what we wanted, Mother and I. He was always such a naive _boy._"

There might have been sadness there, but Hawke struggled to hear it.

"He just thought that being set free would instantly make our lives better. He didn't realise that we'd be cast out onto the streets, no money, no food. Freedom-" Varania stopped short, breathing deep before she continued in a slower, more distinct voice. "Freedom wasn't worth competing for."

Hawke stilled for a moment, her hands resting loosely on the bottles in front of her. It was odd, hearing Varania speak as though Fenris was just a child.

Maybe he had been. Neither of them knew exactly how old Fenris was – at best he'd been able to guess somewhere in or near his late thirties. He really could have been quite young when he'd first had the markings.

Still, it was hard to think of Fenris – so cautious and keen on having a plan instead of charging right in – being so impetuous and not even asking his family what they would want. Failing that, not specifying that they be freed with enough provisions to last.

She remembered the numerous Ferelden refugees filling the streets and alleys of Darktown. What would it have been like, leaving a life like this – where food was at least provided – to be thrown into a life like that.

Maybe slavery had been kinder to Varania.

'_That still doesn't excuse what she did.'_ Hawke thought, dragging in a deep breath with a tiny nod to herself. She still believed that. No matter how big a mistake she thought Fenris had made, giving him back to Danarius was unforgivable.

She opened her mouth to say so. To explain.

What good would it do? Make Varania feel guilty? Maybe. Change everything, free them, give Fenris his memories back?

No.

Instead she turned to the box, only to find she'd emptied it. She finished her dip, however, and picked up the crate, moving it out of the way and dragging the final one over to the empty racks.

Hawke gave a quick glance through her hair before she straightened. Varania was stood with her hands clasped in front of her, chewing on her bottom lip. She looked like a guilty little girl.

Hawke sighed, standing slowly with a bottle in each hand. "Why are you here, Varania?"

The elf started, then looked away.

"I don't know. To apologise? To explain? You were never meant to be a part of this, Hawke," she said softly.

Hawke shook her head, placing one of the bottles in an empty slot. "The minute you came after Fenris, you made me a part of this Varania. Did you think I could just stand by and let Danarius take him? Even if he hadn't told me what that bastard was like, I couldn't have done it. Did you never think that Fenris might have people who cared about him, who'd try to stop Danarius?"

"Fenris had always been alone! Master Danarius told me – it was Kirkwall, it was _only_ Kirkwall where he'd worked with people who were there for more than the coin he'd gained. There was never meant to be anyone else involved," Varania said, shaking her head and holding her hands out.

"Well there was. There was, and look what happened. If you hadn't helped Danarius, neither of us would be here. Fenris would never have gone if it had been anyone else but you. This is all your fault, Varania, and don't ever think I can forgive you for that." The elf flinched back, hunching her shoulders and hugging her arms, but she was shaking her head.

"It's not my fault," she whispered, staring at the floor and blinking rapidly.

"Whose is it then? Because I can't think of-"

"Yours."

Frozen. Varania blinked with huge eyes. Hawke finally breathed.

"What did you say?"

Varania huddled back against the wine rack, trying to look smaller, but Hawke lunged forwards and grabbed her narrow shoulders, shaking them as she shouted. "_What did you say?_"

"Your fault! It was your fault!" Varania shrieked; her thin fingers scrabbling at Hawke's wrists until another shake hit the elf's head against the shelves.

She was leaving bruises; she had to be. She dug her fingers in deeper. "How?"

Varania was trembling, eyes creased and eyelashes wet. She shook her head, refusing to speak until Hawke shook it for her. The back of her skull cracked against the shelves again, and Varania whimpered. "You made Leto let me go but I went back." It was a thick, burbled rush, but it made far too much sense.

Dread started to trickle through Hawke's stomach. Not that. Don't let her be right.

"I saved Danarius. He was almost dead after the fight, and there was so much blood, so much blood and I used my own to save him because there was nothing else I could do-"

'_Shut up. Just shut up, shut up!'_

"-And you let me live, you told Leto to let me go, and I went back. If you'd let Leto kill me, neither of you would be here._ What are you do-_"

Glass shattered.

"No- nononono_no!_" The shriek choked into a bubbling gurgle.

Varania's eyes and throat gaped at Hawke, the blood foaming in the ragged tear and gushing down her neck. It stained the broken neck of the wine bottle Hawke held.

She choked again as Hawke stared at the crimson rivulets staining the powder blue robes, then looked down at the dark green glass in her hand.

The mage crumpled, falling backwards into the wine rack as she tried to back away too late.

Staring down at Varania's half-open, vacant eyes, every hair on Hawke's body stood up in a wave, chasing the adrenaline already thudding through her as her body stiffened and her head jerked up. The breath clenched in her lungs as sounds of running people approached the cellar door and reality firmly asserted itself.

Varania, dead. Murdered. No hiding this one.

'_Oh, Maker, what is he going to do?'_

There were slaves peering down the stairs, drawn by the crash of a breaking bottle and the thud of a falling body.

Some of them gasped or screamed; some ran back upstairs. One of the men rushed to find Danarius and the guards. Hawke stood almost oblivious, her body trembling and the sick feeling in her stomach when she tried to visualise what punishments would await a slave for killing an apprentice magister. Death would be the usual sentence, but Danarius had thus far been loath to kill either Fenris or her. That would only mean a more agonising punishment instead.

'_No. Not again. Please, Maker not again.'_

Heavy footsteps returned, accompanied by a nervous voice.

"Down here, master. She should still be here; she was just standing over Mistress Varania, the bottle still in her hand... "

Danarius' voice cut off that of the slave, silencing him instantly.

"Enough. No doubt I am about to see the details for myself."

The sound stole a sharp breath out of Hawke's body as she finally reacted, her head snapping to look at the top of the stairs. The slaves watching her backed away slightly, their hands raised and eyes wide.

She dropped the bloodied bottle neck when Danarius entered the cellar, Fenris following behind him, silent as ever. The slave that had fetched them scraped a low, terrified bow and scuttled into the crowd of slaves that were rapidly backing away from the Ferelden woman with blood on her hand.

Hawke was dimly aware of Danarius speaking, his voice soft with boredom as he ordered the clustered kitchen staff to remove Varania's body, but her eyes didn't leave Fenris' face. He wore the faintest of frowns, the pale veins of lyrium in his brow furrowing in his confusion.

He glanced up from the pale, scarlet-stained face that stared blankly up at the ceiling to Hawke's, his eyes flickering but softening in question and concern.

At the look, Hawke felt the guilt surge up her throat again.

'_I'm the reason you're here. This is my fault.'_ She shook her head in helpless denial. His frown deepened, just enough to be a question. All this; and he wants to know if she's alright.

She dropped her eyes, unable to look at him without feeling sick. She flinched when Danarius barked her name.

"My study. Now." Scarcely waiting for her tiny nod, he turned and swept back up the stairs, Fenris waiting for Hawke to follow before heading after his master.

They dropped behind Danarius as they strode through the long corridors towards the magister's quarters. Hawke was aware of Fenris' eyes occasionally resting on her, before moving off in their ever vigilant watch for danger, even deep in their master's own home. The third time he glanced at her, she lifted her eyes from the floor to return the look, a barely audible sound passing her lips.

"I'm sorry." It was less than a whisper; and even Fenris had to concentrate to hear it.

With a guarded glance at their master's back, Fenris allowed the glimmer of confusion he felt show in his eyes.

"For what?" He too spoke softly, aware that this was not a conversation for the magister's ears.

But she just shook her head, unable to respond. Finally she whispered; her voice thick and bitter.

"Everything." He stared at her, utterly perplexed, but she didn't elaborate. Instead she bit her lip and turned her face away. If it weren't for the solid set of her shoulders, he would have thought she was fighting back tears, not the bile that rose in her throat as they followed Danarius into his study.

"Close the door, Fenris," he said, turning to face them. His bodyguard responded immediately, the latch clicking into place. He moved to retake his position in the corner, but Danarius' uplifted palm stopped him.

"No, this is something you should hear too, my pet. It concerns both of you, after all." Even as the elf's brows constricted in confusion as he took his place beside Hawke, she felt a bucket of ice slide down her back. He should _hear_?

Hawke suddenly, fervently didn't want to know what Danarius had to say. What could be so important that he would postpone punishing a slave for the murder of an Imperial citizen; an apprentice magister, no less? She clasped her hands behind her back, hard enough to stripe the skin from the pressure. It could hide the shaking, but not stop it.

"I think it is time we all gave up the pretence. You, my dear, have gone against my express order to avoid associating with Fenris without my permission," he said, his eyes drifting over Hawke and the blood on her dress.

She felt Fenris' shoulders tense in a mirror of hers, but Danarius was already moving on, his eyes jumping to the elf.

"Disobedience aside, today's events have made me wonder if you know just who you are associating with, Fenris."

The bodyguard blinked, the only sign of surprise he allowed himself. Danarius smiled; his flat eyes too similar to the hurlocks in Lothering.

"Let me ask you something, little wolf. Do you trust this woman? Honestly, now." The magister's voice was softly chiding, as if speaking to a child he knew had a penchant for lying.

"I... " Fenris seemed confused by the question, glancing at Hawke out of the corner of his eye as his answer slowly left him. "I have seen no reason not to trust her, Master," he said.

The magister just smiled blandly, steel eyes gliding across to Hawke.

"And do you trust Fenris, my dear?" Disgust still crawled across her skin whenever he used one of his patronising endearments, and she had to fight with her composure to stop the revulsion showing on her face.

'_Ten days ago? No.'_

"Yes," she growled quietly, hating how he toyed with them and fearing where this deceptively gentle interrogation was going.

"Touching," Danarius smiled, the gleeful look not quite translating properly upon reaching his eyes. "Yet I wonder if that trust is justly deserved, on both sides." The magister sighed, as if saddened to have to impart such news.

He turned to Fenris first. "You say that the Champion has given you no reason to doubt her. I suppose she is trying to help restore your memories?" Hawke stiffened. Of course, it was a logical assumption to make, but if Danarius was going to use that to taunt Fenris...

The magister didn't wait for his slave to reply, however. He continued, his eyes roving over the pair of them, a corner of his mouth quirked up.

Hawke imagined reopening the scars Fenris had left on his neck and widening them across the width of his throat.

"Has she told you anything of your family yet?"

Hawke's eyes widened.

No. No, he wouldn't.

Fenris was tensing beside her, his eyes fixed on the magister. She'd wager that he valued family just as much as he had in Kirkwall. After having his memories removed again, he no longer had to worry about traps, and the betrayal he'd known for the last few hours in Kirkwall had been wiped away. There was nothing to make him think his family had been anything other than caring.

Danarius smiled.

"No? I thought as much. You didn't seem very upset when you saw poor Varania, after all. I imagine you'd be saddened by the loss of your sister, had you known, especially at the hands of the woman you claim to trust," he said, sitting back in his chair and idly inspecting a loose thread on his sleeve.

Hawke heard Fenris' sharp intake of breath, and dared to glance at him through the shield of her hair.

Every muscle seemed tense. His jaw was clenched, his fingers curled into fists at his side. He finally turned to look at her, and Hawke choked on her breath at the look of hurt that was already morphing into fury that was laid bare on his face.

This was Danarius' punishment.

Fenris was going to kill her.

"Fenris-" She whispered hurriedly, trying to find the time to explain, but she'd already lost it. He cut her off with an abrupt wave of his hand, spinning to face her fully.

"Was it an accident?" Maker help her, she had never heard his voice so cold. There was a single thread of reason that was holding him in place and stopping him from snapping her spine in one move. That thread could break with a single word.

"Fenris, please, liste-"

"_Was it_ _an accident_?" Every word was slow, pronounced. His arms were trembling with the effort of restraining the lyrium burning in his veins.

'_Lie to him.'_

'_Again?' _

Hawke could only stare at his gleaming eyes and, slowly, shake her head.

"No. But Fenris, listen to me-" His hand darted out for her throat, lyrium crackling. Hawke threw herself back, hands leaping up into a guard even though something tiny was still insisting Fenris wouldn't hurt her.

She didn't believe that voice anymore.

His eyes were no longer flat and empty; they were tight and burning. The lyrium was flaring unrestrained now, the familiar blue light diffusing throughout the room as his arm rose to grab her again.

Hawke ran. She heard him leap after her as she yanked the door open, tugging a table with an expensive vase on it over to slow him down. Fenris snarled, jumping right over the wreckage with ease. He paused only at the sound of his name.

"Maim her if you like, pet, but I will be upset if you kill her. I still want something to present at the masquerade." Danarius had already turned to some of the papers on his desk, the faintest remnant of a vicious smile lingering around his mouth. Fenris stared for a moment, then turned and bolted after his quarry.

He hadn't refused the order. He wouldn't agree to it, either.

She was halfway down the corridor, her hair swinging wildly as she sprinted away from him. Even when he shouted after her, she didn't turn.

Clever girl. Looking back would slow her down.

It was almost impossible to believe. He had a sister. He'd _had_ a sister.

Now Hawke, the one who had spent months trying to tease memories out of him, who had made him think that, maybe, freedom might be something worth having... she was his sister's murderer.

There was no room for grief, for either of them. He could feel his concentration narrowing to the single purpose of catching her, then tearing her heart out of her chest.

He was gaining ground. She was only a few metres ahead of him now, her atrophied muscle and low energy rapidly sapping the strength adrenaline had leant her. Hawke may have been a formidable warrior once, but even with their training she was a pathetic shadow of what she used to be.

She turned sharply, darting down a perpendicular corridor, trying to buy herself some extra seconds as Fenris slowed enough to follow her without skidding into one of the walls.

This hall was a short one; it had a few doors and a dead end. Hawke was already vanishing into the second door on the right.

Only one way out.

Fenris slowed as he reached the doorway. Hawke was standing in the middle of the room, just turning to face him.

Her cheeks were flushed from running, her breath uneven. Her eyes were too wide. Hunted, yet immeasurably sad at the same time.

For an instant, her face, fuller, healthier, appeared in his mind, a nearly identical look of grief on her features as firelight danced off her hair.

Then the image was gone, replaced by the gaunt face of someone who had suffered too much as she stared at him with desperate eyes.

"Fenris, _please,_ listen to me-"

"There's nothing for you to say. You _knew_ who my sister was and you didn't tell me. You _cut her throat_, and you _dare_ to say 'listen'?" He kicked the door closed behind him, half turning to flick the bolt across. It would take her too long to unlock the door if she tried to run. He'd catch her before she could get over the threshold.

Frustration started to leak into her voice.

"You don't understand, Fenris, she-" Hawke dodged the small table he kicked at her, her voice freezing in her throat as he stalked forwards. For the first time, he could see blatant fear around her irises, lodged in the whites of her eyes.

"Of course! I don't understand _anything_. You have all the answers, Hawke, and dangle them in front of me like rewards for good behaviour. You say you're trying to help me, but you're as bad as Danarius. Worse!" He saw her flinch, and his lips tightened in satisfaction.

"We have both seen that the magisters are needlessly cruel – even I will admit that now – and what you have told me of freedom has let me see that things aren't always so in the world. But you..." He bared his teeth again; not quite a laugh, not quite pain. "You were kind, Hawke, or you let me think you were. Yet you hold the details of my life close to your chest; you don't tell me anything of importance. Vague words, allusions to my old life, nothing more. And then you destroy one of the few things that I could have valued in this place." His voice shook, as did her head, and for a moment Fenris wasn't sure if he was talking about his sister.

Her lips pressed together and she cast desperately around the room, searching for help that wasn't there.

"I didn't tell you because I was trying to protect you, Fenris," she whispered.

He darted across the room, lyrium flaming along his arm.

She jerked away from him, ducking to the side and leaping backwards, her hands raised.

"_Protect me?_ How could hiding any of this, how could killing Varania protect me?" He shouted back at her, his composure shattered. "I should have realised, when you told me my name. Before, you had always pushed to see if I would remember more, always trying to _help_," he spat, slowly following her through the room, moving to corner her. "But that time, you just said 'I'm sorry', and moved on."He lunged for her again, and she skittered backwards into a writing desk.

He saw her eyes go too wide at her mistake, and before she could lift a hand to block his fingers closed around her jaw and hauled her away.

He turned, spinning to slam her against a wall, his fingers digging into her throat. Pinpricks of blood welled up around the tips of his gauntlet; tinting the metal and running in rivulets down her throat. She grunted as the air juddered out of her and the pain shook through the back of her skull, but blinked hard to clear her vision and scrabbled at his arm, trying to push him away.

His grip tightened and felt the pressure in her throat, muscles and cartilage pushing against him. She gagged and gaped silently for breath that wasn't there.

He considered simply holding her like that, letting the life dissipate from her.

A few minutes isn't slow enough.

He loosened the press of his fingers against her throat just enough for the air to rush back into her lungs. Her eyes closed in an instant of relief, choking as though oxygen was foreign to her, and her clawed hands relaxed on his arm.

She forced herself to recover quickly, looking up even as she heaved deep breaths in, her neck flexing against his hand. He felt a brief rush of surprise when her eyes bored into his, anger plucking at her lips to draw them up into a snarl.

"Hypocrite," she spat, even though her voice caught and scratched in her throat. "You were quite happy to tear her throat out yourself after she betrayed you in Kirkwall. And guess which stupid bitch stopped you and let her go?"

They both froze, staring.

Then his hand relinquished its hold on her neck, slipping away from the deep welts his gauntlets had left.

Lyrium burned, and his hand plunged into her chest.

"Don't lie to me," Fenris snarled, telling himself that he was enjoying the way the anger in her eyes faltered her lips were parted in stunned shock.

The nameless sensation that had coiled around his heart was writhing, gibbering in panic and denial. To erase the feeling, he focused on the frantic pounding between his fingers, and how it faltered when his grip tightened.

Her chest heaved, but her lungs remained slack against his hand. Disbelief spilled out of her eyes as she looked up from the arm buried in her chest.

Air rushed in and her lungs expanded, pushing through his hand and shrinking away from it again. The sound she made was ragged, heaving.

"Fenris... " It was more of a choke than a name. She pulled in another breath, that fear rushing back to haul her eyes open and drain the colour from her face.

"Why would... would I lie? Oh _Maker_," she cried out as his gauntleted, semi-corporeal fingers constricted her heart further, the laboured muscle nearly pulsing out of shape as it tried to escape its confinement.

"Just let me explain why, _please_!" Somehow, she had enough breath for a scream. Something about her hands gripping his shoulders, scrabbling against his chest plate with blunt and broken nails in agony fired a recollection through him. Blood, a wealthy room, her body thrashing in his arms while a green glow bathed her torn midsection...

Fenris locked his jaw against the memory, refusing to acknowledge the feelings of panic and guilt that flooded in with the image, even as that unknown, silent voice in him projected the emotions in the inescapable present.

"Desperate people will say anything to avoid punishment," he said, toying with the idea of just ending it now before his phantom emotions overwhelmed him.

He could kill her now. A single twitch of his fingers would impale her heart on the claws of his gauntlet.

He hated how the emotions detached from his control shied away from the thought.

With a snarl, he yanked his hand from her chest, and she slumped against him, limp, as all the strength left her body.


	21. Chapter 21

Hey guys. So this took longer than I thought, for a few reasons. The main one is that my family and I have had a difficult few weeks - we lost two close family friends in the space of a few days. The other is that 'a bit of editing' turned into almost a full re-write. A lot of the dialogue is the same, if tweaked, but there are new sections and the action is very different to the original draft.

As ever, I hope you like it. No warnings needed for this chapter, which is a relief after the last few. If I've made a mistake anywhere, please let me know (I've done the 'finish it and post it straight away' thing again).

That's it really, other than **Bioware owns all characters and settings**, and enjoy!

* * *

><p>Hawke's gasps were ragged, almost sobs as Fenris' hand, clear of her blood, came between them and pushed her back to collapse against the wall instead of his chest.<p>

She slid slightly down the wall until her knees firmed, leaving her hair bunched up on the stone behind her and her eyes closed as one hand pressed tight against her chest.

He waited until her breathing had slowed and steadied before shifting back a half-step.

The slight movement caught her attention; her eyes opened and her head tilted forward from the wall as her legs tensed, pushing her a little straighter.

He ignored her hooded stare, instead turning his head aside to glare at the wall. He could still feel the phantom imprint of her heart against his hand. Looking at her only tempted him to replace it with the real thing. "Explain."

She dipped her head, hair falling forwards. Her hand moved from her chest to the wall, pushing her fully to her feet. A glance towards her showed her legs rigid but trembling, her arms crossing across her chest – to protect it, or to stop her hands from shaking? "There's a lot to tell." Her voice rasped and caught in her throat. She cleared it and licked her lips before continuing, only a little stronger than before. She glanced up at him, her eyes exhausted but clear. "Danarius had an apprentice before Varania. Her name was Hadriana."

Fenris tilted his head, eyes narrowing. There was the slightest pause before the name, a hint of emphasis, as though she expected the name to mean something to him. Fenris just turned his head fractionally more towards her to show he was listening.

Hawke drew in a breath, lifting her shoulders as her eyes dropped again. "She made your life unbearable, Fenris. Three years ago, we were at the Wounded Coast, doing some errand or another when a group of slave hunters found you. The last one alive told you that Hadriana was nearby, at the Holding Caves. We went straight there to confront her. When we won, she tried to bargain for her life. She told you that you had a sister."

Fenris' hands tightened. "Varania." When she nodded, he took two stiff steps away from Hawke, to restrain himself. It wasn't quite pacing, but it was close. "What did she say?"

Hawke sighed. "That was just to get your attention; to stop you from killing her immediately. Hadriana said she would tell you about her if you spared her life. You agreed." Hawke's shoulders lifted slightly. "Hadriana said she was a servant in a magister's household in Qarinus."

Fenris' shoulders loosened slightly, staring at the far wall without focus. "A servant, you said?"

He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye. "She wasn't a slave. She'd left the magister's service, and came here to Minrathous. She was a tailor."

Fenris nodded, a sharp jerk of his head. "What then? This Hadriana – what happened?" He heard Hawke sigh, chanced a look back at her.

She shrugged when she caught his eyes. "She died. You killed her."

Fenris turned slowly, a small frown tightening his brow. "Although I had given my word to spare her," he said, drawing the words out.

It hadn't been meant as a question, but Hawke nodded anyway. "Yes. She deserved it. You'd told me that much."

Fenris ducked his hand and slashed his hand through the air between them. "Irrelevant. It is done now. What came of this information?"

Hawke nodded, taking a deep breath and looking up at the ceiling. It wasn't the old look, the one she used when avoiding a topic. It was just tired. "You tracked your sister down. You wrote to her, and eventually sent her enough coin for passage to Kirkwall. You were worried though. You thought it could be a trap. The fact she was in Minrathous and not Qarinus made things more difficult."

Fenris lifted his hands, palms up, before letting them fall back to his side. "How so?"

Hawke closed her eyes, smiled. There was a breath of air that might have been a snort if it was stronger. "Because this is the capital of the Imperium, and where Danarius lived. He hadn't stopped hunting you since you escaped the first time. You'd spent the past few years being paranoid, and it had saved you more than once. If Hadriana knew you had a sister, then so did Danarius, and you knew he wouldn't hesitate to use her against you."

Fenris tensed again, a muscle in his jaw ticking. It wasn't what she told him as much as her attitude. Her smile, the almost-laugh, the weary way she recited everything as though it was all obvious, and he particularly dim for not knowing it already.

He was aware that he wasn't being entirely fair, but the shaking in his hands hadn't stopped, the choking, burning weight in his chest hadn't lifted. Hawke's heart pressed against his hand again, and he clenched it into a fist to kill the sensation.

He could do it, if he chose. He could kill her. She wasn't watching him, her arms were looser – not that they could stop him anyway.

Danarius' warning rang in his head, but Fenris shook it away. A maiming could go wrong, leave her dead. Who would argue that her heart was crushed when confronted with a destroyed limb? If bones shattered, they could so easily hit an artery. He would be punished, but he had survived that before. It would be worth it.

For a sister he'd never known?

Fenris dipped his head, turning away sharply from his own thoughts.

For a sister he _could have had_.

Hawke had known. All this time, she could have told him. Given him something to value. Instead she stole even the chance away.

She deserved to die for that.

But... if she knew about Varania, what else did she know about? What else was she hiding from him?

He remembered the story about Hadriana, promising her life then taking it away after she had given him what he needed to know. What was to stop him doing the same here?

He didn't even have to say he would spare her. All she had asked for was the chance to explain. He could get the answer to all of his questions before he killed her, and he wouldn't even be breaking his word.

Slowly, his muscles loosened, the tension slipping out of him as the same kind of calm he felt in battle sank in.

He didn't know if Hawke noticed the change, didn't much care. It didn't matter if she did.

"What then?" His voice sounded different; hollow, drained. He turned to look at her again, caught her watching him. The wariness was there again, the brief smile gone in favour of lips pressed into a line and tight eyes.

She stayed silent for a long moment, staring at him from behind her closed expression. She must have drawn some conclusion from his face, because her eyes closed briefly and her head dipped, her breath sighing out of her.

Then her eyes opened and she turned her head away to look at the floor, her voice steady but tired. "It took three years for Varania to arrive; I guess a lot of that was gathering enough coin for passage, but you never said. You only told me you'd been looking for her after she'd reached Kirkwall. You'd asked Aveline – you remember she's Guard Captain? – if she could monitor the incoming ships. She did, and told you when your sister arrived and that she appeared to be alone. You asked me to come to the Hanged Man – where Varania was staying – with you. You still thought it might be a trap."

Fenris drew in a deep breath, turning his head away again. "And was it?"

"Yes."

He clamped his eyes shut, breathing again as his hands clenched and relaxed.

She could be lying. It would give her a reason to kill Varania, after all. What better way to avoid paying for her own betrayal than by revealing and avenging another?

Even if she was, how would he know? She was the only one who would tell him any version of the story, true or not. If he didn't believe her, he was no better off than he was now.

But if he _did_ believe her... would he be better off for knowing he had a traitor for a sister?

Hawke didn't wait for his prompt this time, pressing on. Her voice was tight, bitter.

Fenris wondered if she could fake that.

"Varania had led Danarius and his men to Kirkwall. She _said_ she had no choice, but from the sound of it she wasn't forced into it. Danarius was going to make her his apprentice if she helped him. She could have said no, she could have left you alone, but she didn't." Hawke was rushing now, spitting the words out.

Fenris remembered the gash in the elf – in _Varania's_ throat. She'd looked tiny, delicate. He wasn't surprised she had fallen to such anger.

"He was in the tavern, with some of his soldiers. He was ready to kill you for the lyrium in your body if you refused to return with him to Minrathous." Hawke shook her head, folding her arms around herself in that old gesture that struck Fenris as painfully familiar. He half-expected her teeth to start worrying her lip, or her eyes to start darting across the floor. Chasing invisible spiders.

Instead she sighed, tilted her head back and shook it, eyes unfocused but steady. One arm unfolded to rest a hand against her neck, thumb running idly over the bruises and blood he'd left there. "I wouldn't let him take you."

He didn't freeze, he wasn't tense enough for that, but a stillness settled into his muscles that paralysed him all the same. "'Let'? What do you mean?"

Hawke glanced up at him, eyes flickering as she caught his expression, before huffing, shaking her head again. "Not what you're thinking. You were never my slave nor my servant, Fenris, no matter what Danarius thought." Her lip curled around the name, brows dipping. "I wouldn't let him take you, because you were one of the closest friends I had and-" She stopped dead, mouth open but no sound coming out. Her eyes, previously so steady on his, faltered and dropped. Her mouth closed, she took a breath, and continued with something Fenris was certain she hadn't been about to say.

"... And I couldn't bear the thought of you returning to Minrathous, or dying. I wasn't about to let Danarius take you away or kill you, and I wasn't going to let him leave after what you'd told me about him. Not that he would have done, of course. He was there to win, but I don't think he ever expected to lose."

Fenris opened his mouth, hesitated, clamped his teeth together but kept his lips drawn back. He was torn between demanding to know what she had really intended to say, and learning about their final minutes of freedom.

His gauntlets were digging into his palms, leaving white-to-red marks in his skin.

History won. That didn't stop his frustration from leaking out.

"Yet despite all your determination, we failed," he snarled, a petty surge of pleasure at any of her failings rising in his gut. It didn't matter that he had also lost, just that she had-

She was shaking her head.

Fenris growled and threw himself into pacing. It didn't help. "If we did not fail, then why are we here?"

Hawke's shoulders hunched, and her thumb paused over one of the raised welts in her neck left by his gauntlet. "That's where Varania becomes involved."

Fenris slowed to a halt, closing his eyes briefly before giving a terse nod. "Continue."

Hawke dipped her head before looking past him to the far wall, talking quietly. "We beat Danarius, despite the slavers and demons and spells he threw at us. You dealt what we thought was the finishing blow; two punctures to his throat." She said, tilting her head to the right and raising her other hand to briefly tap the left side of her neck with two fingers before folding the arm around her ribs again.

Fenris turned. He'd seen those scars, usually hidden behind Danarius' high collars. Two sets of four marks. One set were clearly punctures, but the others were ragged, long, deeper at one end than the other, as though Danarius had been moving away when he received them. Fenris had wondered about them, but never dared ask nor even look at them too long. He looked down at his hand, running his armoured thumb across the inside of his fingers. He'd never have imagined he had been the one to put them there.

Somehow, out of everything, that little detail struck him as true. If she was honest about that, then maybe none of it was a lie.

He pushed the thought away. The best lies were woven through with truth. That's what made them believable. Besides, Hawke had probably seen the scars herself. She could have invented where Danarius had gained them.

Then why did the shape and size of the scars match the fingers of his gauntlets so well?

Hawke shifted against the wall, transferring her weight to her off leg. "But then you went after Varania."

His sister's name caught his attention, and he looked up from his hand.

"You couldn't see past her betrayal; she was just another puppet of the magisters', one used to trick you. You wanted to kill her." Her head fell back towards the wall and she gave a small breath of a laugh. This one was so bitter that he couldn't find any anger for it. "I told you to let her live. I'd lost my whole family – my parents and brother dead, my sister imprisoned in the Gallows – and I still regret not being able to save any of them. I may not have killed any of them outright, but I couldn't stand by and let you make that mistake, because I knew how much having a family meant to you."

She shook her head, turning aside and swallowing. "I was certain that you would regret killing Varania if I didn't stop you." She bared her teeth, but there was no smile there. "Now I regret getting you to listen. You let her go, but as soon as we left the Hanged Man, she came back and used blood magic to save Danarius. He wasn't quite dead – unconscious, and had he been left, he would have bled out within minutes. But Varania used the blood of the slavers we'd killed, and her own, to save him. Of course, Danarius couldn't deny her an apprenticeship after _that_." Her lips were hitched up over her teeth, watching her it seemed like she had to force them down in order to press her lips tight together in a grimace.

Fenris had seen disgust on his master's face while escorting him through the peasants in the streets often enough to recognise it on Hawke's now.

Yet something wasn't right.

"You said we had left. How do you know what she did afterward?" He asked, spreading his hands, frowning.

His hope that this was a slip, a sign it was all a story, dimmed as Hawke answered easily, without any hesitation or rush to indicate she was lying.

"She told me, in the cellar. That's why I killed her. I... I couldn't deal with the knowledge that had I just _kept quiet_, we wouldn't be here. _You_ wouldn't be here. If it was just me, I wouldn't care so much, but..." she trailed off, head tilted back to rest against the wall, eyes closed but brow furrowed. Her shoulders lifted with her breath and her eyes opened, staring at the ceiling as she continued. "But because of me, you had to come back here knowing _exactly _what would happen. You knew Danarius would take your memories, take _everything_ from you, and it was _my fault_, Fenris, and I'm _so sorry-_" She cut herself off, eyes blinking rapidly as they rove over the ceiling.

Her bruises pulsed and sank as she swallowed, sucking in a sharp breath. Both hands were gripping her elbows, her large, bony knuckles white, her thin bones below her fingers standing out in the hollows of her skin.

Fenris bowed his head. This reaction, this guilt, he believed.

That didn't mean he could stop now. "If Danarius didn't capture us then; how were we enslaved?" He let his voice soften, and fatigue seeped in without his permission.

Hawke closed her eyes, and her shoulders trembled as she held her breath in, but when she let it out in a long, controlled sigh, her voice was steady if thick. "We let our guard down. You'd gone back to your mansion after-"

He had to interrupt. "My _what_?"

That triggered an unintended smile. "It was Danarius' borrowed estate, but you moved in after we scared Danarius out of Kirkwall. You took great pleasure in tearing it apart, even though we all went on at you to at least do something about the mushrooms growing in the foyer."

His eyebrows were creeping up his forehead. He knew it, could feel it, but couldn't quite wrestle back control of them to lower them.

Hawke let her head fall forward from the wall and managed a small grin when she saw his expression. "It's true. We all just started calling it 'Fenris' Mansion'. You never did get rid of the mushrooms, you know." Then the smile dimmed, and her eyes slid away from his as she lifted a hand away from her elbow and waved it, brushing the detail aside.

Invisible weight settled back on his shoulders, his skin prickling. It was like standing underground, feeling the weight of the earth above.

A tiny frown puckered his brow. How did he know what being underground felt like?

"Anyway, you'd gone home after the battle. I went to see how you were later that night. You didn't feel as... victorious, I guess, as you expected to. You'd spent so long running and waiting for the chance to kill Danarius that you didn't know what else to do, or how to move on."

The stop wasn't as sudden this time, but there was a definite pause there, not merely one to gather her thoughts. Something was telling him she was holding back again, but he couldn't place what. Her posture, her expression-

She bit her lip. It was fast, more of a scrape, but that little stifled tell made him certain he was right.

"You're holding something back, Hawke."

It was gratifying to see her wince, though she recovered quickly. She eyed him side-on, and he recognised her way of debating with herself, wondering if she could get away with refusing.

Three weeks ago, yes. Not now.

"Tell me."

She glanced at the ceiling in either frustration or prayer, he couldn't tell. "Fenris, I- all we did was talk."

He raised an eyebrow. "So why hesitate?"

She hesitated. "I- well, do you remember every conversation you had four months ago?"

His other eyebrow joined the first, but his voice was mild. "I don't _remember_ four months ago."

She grimaced at that, opened her mouth – presumably to apologise.

Fenris didn't give her the chance. "Which is why I'm asking you, Hawke."

Her mouth closed. She stared at him, realised that, no, he wasn't going to stop asking, and dropped her head back against the wall with a small thud. "Fine. Given what I did today, I doubt you'll like it."

When he didn't change his mind, Hawke let her eyes slide away and instead fixed them on a point on the opposite wall, her voice flat and carefully controlled.

"We had slept together, after that fight with Hadriana. Just one night. It could have been more, but it brought your memories back, just for a moment. You couldn't cope with them all surging back only to vanish again, so you left." Her eyes were cool, but her jaw was tense, the muscle flickering.

It was only seeing hers that made him realise his own jaw was aching from the pressure. He loosened it and drew a breath in – what felt like the first breath since she'd spoken – and turned away. He wanted to pace again, but couldn't bring himself to move.

He'd slept with her. Slept with his sister's murderer.

He should feel angry – should feel _sick_-

He didn't. Just a distant pang of disappointment. He wasn't even sure if it was with himself.

She hadn't murdered Varania then, he reasoned. She would just be a name to her for years yet. Even so, his sister had betrayed him, had turned him into Danarius when he had wanted to remain free – had _fought_ to stay free for years.

They had to be why he wasn't disgusted, furious with himself. There had to be some explanation, one he hadn't thought of yet.

He shook his head once, sharply. _Focus. _He could think his reaction through later.

"My memories... something else you lied about."

He could only see her legs clearly, the rest of her blurring into his peripheral vision, but he could see her tense.

"I didn't lie about them, Fenris."

He turned back to her, movements sharp.

Her arms were still crossed, her expression closed off, but he could see the beginnings of a frown around her mouth.

"So seeing someone from my past and sleeping with you is the same thing, according to you?"

Her eyes hardened and her nostrils flared, jaw tensing again. "I didn't lie." Each word surged, rising in the middle before her voice faded and she bit out the next. "You saw someone – Varania, in fact, just minutes before Danarius arrived – and remembered playing with her as a child while your mother worked. When we slept together, your memories came back. All of them, from what I can gather. There was a big difference."

Fenris dipped his head, acknowledging it, though the burning in his gut compelled him to object, if softer than the feeling demanded. "You still could have told me."

He wondered if she'd picked up on the quiet tone, because while frustration bled into every word, the anger he expected wasn't there. "Fenris, I wasn't even supposed to _see_ you, never mind tell you that you'd got your memories back for all of a second after sleeping together."

He snorted, his hands snapping through frustrated gestures. "That didn't stop you before, Hawke. You have told me so many things that you shouldn't have. Why not this? Why not my sister?"

While he was sharp movements, she was still, calm, but her eyes were tight when she met his. "Because I wasn't in danger of dying before. I had something to lose by ignoring Danarius' orders. But if you're going to kill me, I at least want to make sure it's after you've got the whole story. You deserve that. We both do."

That brought him to a stop, his hands drifting back to his sides, almost forgotten.

She smiled, a bitter little twist at one corner spoiling it. "We both know that could happen. If it does..." She shrugged; looking away, off to a middle distance instead of at anything in the room. "Well, maybe it'll help you escape one day. I hope one of us gets out, at least. I'm starting to doubt both of us can. Two other slaves, maybe. Just not us."

Fenris' head dipped, turning slightly so he didn't have to look at her. His fingers folded in against his palm, but he couldn't feel her heart anymore. "You never did tell me about your escape attempt. Or why you never tried since." His voice was lower than he expected, rougher. He could feel the anger still seething in his chest, but it felt smothered, out of reach.

He heard her sigh and shift, but didn't look. Staring at a bookcase was easier.

"Our escape attempt," she said softly. "We tried a few times. Stirred up a slave rebellion on the ship here, fought our way out of the dungeons and into the courtyard. Right into a trap; Danarius expected us to try something. They took you straight to his workshop, to erase your memories, and threw me in the cells for a few weeks. I couldn't try again after that. I couldn't leave you behind." She laughed, quiet and bitter. "You probably think that was stupid of me."

'_No.'_

He flinched from the stray thought, then shifted his shoulders to mask the movement. "I don't know, Hawke. If freedom is what you truly want... I don't see why you would stay because of me. I don't know if that makes you a fool."

She gave a small hum of a laugh. "Neither do I. So where does that leave us?"

His lips lifted, and he shook his head. Smiling. After all this, he was smiling.

He was mad. He had to be.

"Three years ago, I believe," He lifted his head so she could see his face, the curve of his mouth.

That single laugh again. "Of course, though there isn't much more to say. You left, and that was it. We weren't the same as before, not exactly, but we tried to be. We never talked about it though. You were too ashamed, too afraid. I was too stubborn. I told myself I was just giving you space, but really I just didn't want to be the one to bring it up first." She rolled her eyes and grinned to herself. "Cowards, the pair of us."

The insinuation should have rankled. He should have wanted to argue. Instead, there was just the bizarre urge to laugh and nod. He stifled the sound, but had to settle for dipping his head and shuffling when the nod refused to be quelled.

Hawke sighed. "Anyway, three years passed, Varania arrived and we fought Danarius. When we talked afterwards at the mansion, you brought it up. We talked things through, realised we'd both been stupid for leaving it that long. We decided we wanted to try again, see if we could make things work." She gave him a small smile, but the skin around her eyes was creased. "Won't hold you to that, by the way. Wouldn't be fair, and- well. A lot's happened." Her voice faded out and her eyes drifted away, distant.

He didn't say it, but even if he did care for her as much as she remembered, he knew they both might have changed too much for them to work now.

Still, the idea that he _had_ cared for her – for anyone – that much... how much trust had he placed in her? If he could trust her then...

It was only then he realised he'd stopped doubting her at some point, but couldn't place when.

Hawke leant away from the wall, rolled her shoulders and cleared her throat, frowning as her eyes came back into focus.

"Regardless, we didn't get much of a chance at anything. We heard footsteps on the stairs. You thought it was Varric, picking up his pack of cards or something, but when you opened the door... " She wrapped her arms around herself again, shoulders hunching in a shrug but staying up as she huddled back against the wall. "Neither of us expected a dead man and a group of soldiers to be on your landing. We were unarmed, heavily outnumbered, taken by surprise. Even we couldn't beat those odds." She was staring at nothing again, the skin around her eyes hollow and dark. Exhausted.

Fenris shifted, only then becoming aware that his legs had started to ache from standing so long. He had no idea how long they had been here.

In that case, a little longer wouldn't go amiss.

"And your friends? Your Guard Captain and this... Varric? They haven't come after you?" He asked, his hands opening and lifting slightly from his sides, palms out, as much a question as his words.

Hawke's mouth thinned and she turned her head away, shoulders tightening. "I'm sure they tried. Maybe they still are. There wasn't much to go on though, Fenris. We were both unconscious, so we couldn't leave a trail or make enough noise to be noticed while being transferred to the ship. The only likely culprit was dead as far as they knew; some of them had been with us in the tavern. They saw Danarius die. How could they know he was responsible after that?"

He shook his head, lifted his shoulders in defeat. "I'm sorry, Hawke."

She stretched her mouth, but it wasn't really a smile. "That makes two of us."

They both lapsed into silence, not quite looking at each other, but not ignoring each other either. More waiting for one to break the quiet.

Eventually, Hawke lifted her head from contemplating the floor and sighed, the noise knocking through the stillness of Fenris' muscles. He straightened and stretched, rolling his shoulders as Hawke pushed her arms away from her, flexing her fingers as she stepped away from the wall. When her arms fell, her loose, ready stance reminded him of the early days in the training ring. Deceptively relaxed until she had to move. Her eyes were tense but clear, meeting his squarely for what felt like the first time in a long while. "So, what now?"

He tilted his head, eyebrows lifted.

She gave a smile without teeth and lifted a hand to tap the bruises he'd left on her neck, then dropped it to rest over her heart. "Still going to kill me, Fenris?"

He stared, mouth slightly open for an automatic answer that didn't come. He took a breath, turned to face her fully, fingers closing and opening against his palm.

Was he?

He reached for that anger, the fury of _she killed your sister_, and found something old and tired, smouldering but nothing like the blaze it had been.

He turned to the stories, the memories he didn't have. Worry and hope and paranoia proved right. A sister who betrayed him. A sister he had tried to kill. A dead master surviving after all. Failed escape attempts. Memories stolen again. Through it all, Hawke beside him. Hawke he went to for help, for support. Hawke who refused to leave this life while he was still here.

Hawke who was standing there, waiting to die.

Fenris closed his eyes, drew in a breath that made him shake. His fist clenched for a moment, the pain of metal digging into his skin helping him focus.

He lifted his head and met her eyes, completely free of secrets for the first time. He didn't know everything, not by far, but she wouldn't hide it anymore.

So wary, so tired. He wondered if she'd fight back if he said yes. He'd be hard-pressed if she did. He'd win, she had too many disadvantages, but she'd make him struggle first.

Had he lost anything, really? A sister, but a traitor.

What would he lose, if he killed her?

His past. Who he was. Everything she knew he would lose.

Slowly, he shook his head. "No, Hawke. I won't kill you."

Slowly, her muscles softened and she smiled fully for the first time.

It didn't fix everything. Maybe nothing would.

Yet maybe there was a chance.


	22. Chapter 22

Hey everyone! I'm back at last XD I've finally finished uni, which was what had kept me from this story for so long. To apologise, and because Hawke and Fenris don't know when to shut up, this is either the third or fourth longest chapter of the story.

I don't think any specific warnings are needed for this one (though if you disagree, let me know!) The line breaks are just to show perspective change and whatnot.

This is the last chapter before the big finale - next chapter we're off to the Masquerade, and there's only a couple after that. A lot of those chapters are at least partially written, so I hope there won't be a massive wait again (though don't hold me to it, as you all know my update schedule is terrible).

I'm aware that the reason for the travel times for Varric and co. might be a bit contrived, and honestly I did shoot myself in the foot when I first decided the Masquerade would be in 'a month' - so when the story is finished, I may well go back and tweak the timeline slightly, if I can do so without messing up the whole thing. However, if you think it's fine as is, I'm happy to leave it - less work for me XD

Thanks to everyone who has read or reviewed this story so far - you guys are the reason I'm still sticking with it, three years on. You're all wonderful, and I can't thank you enough for your support and kind words. I hope this chapter is up to scratch for you. Enjoy.

* * *

><p>Varric glanced over the side and shuddered again. Surrounded by water. Dwarves were not supposed to be out at sea. Even though he didn't place much stock in the Stone anymore, Varric was still very much a 'land' person. All that water made him weak at the knees.<p>

Still, he made himself leave the relative safety of below deck and wobble towards the wheel. Isabela was thoroughly in her element, barking orders at her crew and the daft buggers who had volunteered to help run the ship. Which was really everyone except him. Merrill was quite happy up in the crow's nest, while Aveline, Anders, Sebastian and Bethany had joined the sailors in running around at Isabela's beck and call. Well, Anders and Sebastian did. Aveline always called the pirate queen out when she was pushing her luck, and Bethany got away with murder where Isabela was concerned.

With a groan, Varric clambered onto the upper deck and made his way to Isabela's side.

"Morning!" She said, grinning when Varric sagged against the rail and pressed his forehead to the cool wood. "Still feel like shit?"

"Maker, yes. How you live like this, Rivaini, I do not know." He slowly pushed himself upright in order to squint at the sky, the few clouds present scudding across the sky. "Moving this fast isn't helping. I never knew ships could sail so quickly."

Isabela hummed. "Actually, this isn't normal. We've had unusually good winds since leaving Kirkwall. Calm seas, near-perfect weather. I think we're getting a little help. At this rate, we'll cut the travel time in half."

Varric stared at her. "We can make up a month's travel, just because of good weather?" And a magical nudge, sure, but still.

Isabela laughed. Some of the newer sailors paused to watch the display until she shouted at them to get back to work. "Oh, bless. No, we can't. You, Master Tethras, are on board one of the finest ships I've sailed on, under the command of the Queen of the Eastern Seas. A good ship and crew can make a big difference. With any luck, we'll be there in time for the party."

"You and parties," Varric grumbled. He paused, watching Merrill scramble around in the rigging, Bethany securing lines to the spars, Aveline, Sebastian and Anders aloft, adjusting the main sail under the supervision of the boatswain. "How do you think they're coping?" He asked finally.

Isabela shifted her weight, then waved her sailing master over to take the wheel. "You don't mean that lot, do you?" She asked, walking with him to the steps leading down to the main deck before sitting down on the top step, Varric settling beside her.

Varric shook his head, rubbing his brow. "Nah. Hawke and Fenris. It's been, what, nearly four months now?"

Isabela nodded, her hair tickling the side of his face. "Almost. They're tough as these boots though," she said, patting the worn leather covering her knees. "They'll do okay. Even if Fenris doesn't remember anything, Hawke'll keep an eye on him. Besides, after this we'll always be able to remind them that they needed rescuing. You'll be writing stories about us for a change." She lightly bumped his shoulder with hers, smiling. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

Varric accepted the attempt however, patting her knee in mute thanks before using it to push himself to his feet. "Anyway, I'm going to go and borrow your cabin, go over the maps again. We're going to need to know Minrathous inside out if we're going to get in and out without any problems."

"Fine. One of these days though, I'm making you help the others. You spend way too much time below deck or hiding in my berth." Isabela hopped to her feet, completely at ease with the sway of the ship while Varric clung to the banister.

"Not bloody likely, Rivaini."

It was relatively quiet in the great cabin, and Varric didn't have to look out the windows at the expanse of the ocean. It made his nerves settle a little.

He settled into the chair and began sorting through the papers on the desk. The letter he had received was tucked into his notebook, but Isabela's copy had been left out.

_Serah Isabela,_

_I hope this finds you well. I know by now you must realise Serah Hawke and Fenris are missing, but I do not know how much information you have as to how or why. You may know this already, but I couldn't risk you being unaware and unable to help._

_Hawke and Fenris are in Minrathous, in the household of Magister Danarius. I met Hawke briefly during a visit to Danarius' estate with my tutor. I was able to speak with her and she explained._

_Apparently she and Fenris fought Danarius whilst in Kirkwall. This I assume you know. However, Danarius did not die in this fight. Hawke did not elaborate on why; merely said he appeared at Fenris' home with soldiers and caught the two unawares. When they woke, they were already aboard a ship and out at sea._

_Hawke is planning on escaping, but she refuses to leave or accept help trying at the present time. Fenris, she told me, has had his memories removed. I do not know the details, but I saw him guarding Magister Danarius and he did not recognise me at all. Hawke believes that Fenris will not leave, even if given the chance, due to this memory loss. She still plans to escape, but needs more time – Fenris does not remember her, and she says she must regain his trust before broaching the possibility of an escape with him._

_I believe she will act at a Masquerade at the end of Parvulis – Danarius will take both Fenris and Hawke there as 'exhibits' to display to the other Magisters and the Archon himself. It gives her some time to befriend Fenris again, but I fear any attempt she makes without aid will fail._

_I ask you for any support you may be able to give. I will help them if I can, but I must be very careful not to be discovered aiding the escape of a pair of valuable slaves. If at all possible, I would like to cause a distraction during the Masquerade, to allow them to escape without notice. However, doing this alone may be difficult, and even if successful it will leave Hawke and Fenris in the streets of Minrathous, alone, with no way to securely escape the city._

_I know time is short, Serah, but if you and Hawke's other companions could in any way reach Minrathous in time for the Masque, your aid would be greatly appreciated. If you do choose to head for the Imperium, I will aid your travel in any way possible. My tutor has been teaching me powerful magic, old skills that are little-known. I may be able to help speed your journey. _

_Please, I ask your help for our mutual friends. I hate to see them in this state, and would see them freed. You do not have to send a written response – I shall walk your dreams tonight, and find your answer there. I hope you forgive this intrusion, but it is far faster than letters and time is crucial._

_Your friend,_

_Feynriel._

_P.S. I have sent a copies of this letter to Serah Varric and your other companions, so as soon as any of you receive one you will be able to act, or not as you choose._

Varric sat back in the chair, his fingers steepled. The day of receiving the letter had been manic, dashing outside to find the others to make sure they knew, only to run into them in the street, on their way to do the same thing. They had converged briefly at the Hanged Man to plan their departure, then spent the rest of the day preparing.

Isabela had drummed up a crew from somewhere and decided to take over Castillon's ship after all, since it was still sitting in the harbour after her captain and crew were killed.

Aveline had appointed her second-in-command as Acting Guard-Captain in her absence, and said her goodbyes to Donnic. The guardsman had wanted to accompany his wife, but she insisted that the City Guard couldn't afford both of them leaving.

Sebastian had received the Grand Cleric's blessing to leave and had, along with Aveline, been elected to inform Meredith of what they planned. Apparently a lot of shouting had been involved, along with Meredith's misconception that they were asking permission.

Merrill had helped organise gathering supplies for the ship and packed her own meagre belongings – Isabela had put her foot down when it came to bringing the mirror along, so Merrill would have to leave it behind. Everyone had swapped relieved glances at that.

Anders had worked with other healers, magical or otherwise, in Kirkwall to make sure the clinic kept running while he was away, then went straight to the Gallows via the Mage Underground and broke Bethany out.

Due to the mail screening in place, Bethany hadn't received her letter yet. It was a mad scramble to assemble what little she would need to bring then sneak out without any plan. Apparently Knight-Captain Cullen had nearly seen them, but nothing came of it so Anders assumed that they had escaped unnoticed. Bethany wasn't so sure. Varric was inclined to agree with the younger Hawke sibling. The news of the missing Champion had spread faster than disease during a Blight, and Varric had 'let slip' that it was known she and her (rumoured) lover had been captured. Cullen was familiar enough with the way Hawke's group worked to know they wouldn't waste a moment once they knew something could be done to save them.

Varric himself had pulled on all his old favours and accumulated as much information on Minrathous as possible in the few hours before they left. None of them slept that night, choosing to wait until they were at sea with nothing to do for a few months.

As it turned out, it would be little over a month before they arrived. Whatever magic Feynriel had been learning, it apparently worked since they were having the smoothest, fastest voyage Isabela had ever been on in more years than she would ever admit.

So far, he'd been able to locate Danarius' estate on the city maps, and memorised the route from the docks to both the estate, the Archon's palace where the masquerade would be held, and to Feynriel's estate. He'd also memorised the way from each location to the others. Their plan was risky, and their escape might not go to plan. Having backups always helped.

Varric sighed, eyes roaming over the letter again. He wished Feynriel had said how the two were doing. Fenris was a bodyguard, so he had to be at least reasonably well looked after to do his job, memory loss aside. Hawke, though... Varric had no idea how she would be treated. Like Aveline had said, she was the Champion of Kirkwall. That had to mean something, even in the Imperium. Maybe she wouldn't be too badly treated. That didn't stop his mind running away with him at times, imagining the horrors of the Imperium he had heard and applying them to Hawke. It had been nearly a month since Feynriel's letters, after all. According to Fenris, a month was a long time. A lot of harm could be done in just a few days, and Hawke wasn't the type to keep her head down and avoid attention. Particularly not if people were being mistreated in front of her. He could just see her intervening on behalf of another slave, and being punished for it. It's just something she would do.

He felt guilty for it, but he hoped Hawke had ignored the others around her and just focused on surviving unscathed herself. He knew it wouldn't happen, but it always helped to hope.

Sometimes it was the only thing keeping him sane.

* * *

><p>They were keeping her away from the cellars now. The same with the kitchens, and the stables, and any other job that involved a potentially lethal weapon.<p>

That left her dusting and mopping floors. Hawke tried not to laugh. Killing someone with a mop or feather duster would be more difficult than with a bottle or a knife, but it was perfectly possible. Her mother had threatened to do exactly that on several occasions when Carver was driving her round the bend. She would have said the same to Father too, only he was subtle enough to avoid detection in the first place.

Hawke couldn't quite shake the feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Varania had been a magister's apprentice, and though what had happened with Fenris had honestly terrified her, she had left that situation relatively intact. Yet no other punishments had been given. Not to her, not to Fenris, as far as she knew, for taking so long. Unless Fenris had told Danarius some of what had happened – that he'd choked her, and nearly crushed her heart in her chest – and the magister had decided that was punishment enough. Still, that was unusually lenient for him, surely?

She wouldn't complain if nothing else came of it, but she wasn't about to relax just yet.

Hawke paused when Sabain and a few others left Danarius' workshop, leaning the mop against the wall and stretching.

Sabain closed the door behind him and nodded to Hawke, pausing when the others walked off. His eyes only briefly rested on the purple-yellow five-day old bruises on her neck. "You got much more to do, Hawke?"

She grimaced and held her hand out flat, tilting it from side to side. "About half of this wing left." She nodded past him towards the door. "What was it like in there?"

Sabain shook his head, glancing to either end of the corridor for guards before approaching. "Getting worse. We're carrying whole bodies out now, and there are no chunks of flesh anymore, but the blood... whatever he's practicing in there, I feel sorry for the poor bastard he uses it on. Has used it on."

Hawke's lips tightened, but she reached out and clapped him on the shoulder and tried to smile. "At least it's none of our lot. Try and focus on that."

Sabain stared at her, before looking away and giving a sigh and a half-shrug so he didn't push her away. "I'll be honest, it doesn't help. I'm no fighter, Hawke. Can't separate them out. Just people to me."

Hawke nodded, withdrawing her hand. "I know. We all stay sane in different ways though, right?"

He barked a laugh. "Right." His head tilted fractionally to the left, before his eyes purposefully darted away in that direction and back to hers again. "I'll let you get back to work. Later, Hawke."

He was walking away and Hawke was mopping again by the time the two patrolling guards rounded the corner.

When Hawke returned to the slave quarters that evening, Enansal was screaming.

Hawke ran in, wishing for her lost throwing knife and trying to think of anything in the sleeping quarters she could use as an impromptu weapon, and slowed to a stop when she entered the room. Enansal was on her pallet, a small crowd of female slaves around her holding her hands or supporting her back, towels laid out beneath and around her, someone waiting with a bowl of hot water beside them. A blanket was draped over her swollen belly and open legs, covering her to the occupants of the room not involved in the birth. Even the people who were turned away to give the girl some privacy were tense, murmuring encouragement between her screams.

Hawke walked further in, spotting Sabain and Vasilia and sitting with them. Sabain kept his eyes averted but was clutching his hands together, a frown tensing his face. Vasilia was staring, her eyes huge.

"How long has it been?" Hawke asked quietly.

Sabain shrugged. "She was pushing when I finished for the day, and Vasilia said she's been in labour since at least seventh bell when she came in to get changed." Enansal screamed again, sounding scared, exhausted and furious all at once. Sabain flinched again. "Expect a long night."

Hawke nodded. "Anything we can do?"

Sabain shook his head. "Nah, the healers have got it. Done this often enough, after all. Best thing we can do is stay out of the way and don't stress the poor girl out even further."

Vasilia tugged on Sabain's sleeve without looking away from the imminent mother-to-be. "Sabain?"

"Yes lass?"

"I don't think I want children in the future."

Sabain started laughing, his shoulders shaking as he tried to suppress the sound. "Trust me girl, in this country you don't. You really don't."

No one slept that night. Several hours after last bell the guards came in, complaining about the noise. The demand that Enansal be quieter was met with the united stare of almost every slave in the room until the man backed out, grumbling. Enansal herself didn't seem to even notice his presence in the room, but Hawke could have sworn that for the next few minutes her screams were louder than they had been.

Some time after fourth bell, there were two simultaneous screams, then Enansal fell quiet as the baby continued wailing.

There was a moment when everyone slumped and the smiles hatched, then everyone started shouting congratulations as the mother slumped back against her pallet, gasping. The crowd quieted as the lead healer – the woman who had saved Fenris, Hawke remembered – checked the baby over before handing him to his mother and leaning in to whisper to Enansal. A huge smile spread across the young woman's thin face as the healer raised her voice for the whole room. "It's a boy!"

The shouting and laughing started again.

"Good lass!" Sabain slapped Hawke on the shoulder smiling fully for the first time Hawke had seen.

"That's got to be a relief for her," Hawke said, squeezing Vasilia's hand in shared excitement, and to remind the girl to stop staring.

"Aye. You won't be so happy in a few days though," Sabain said, chuckling. He nodded towards the squalling baby when Hawke looked at him in askance. "When he wants feeding during the night, we'll _all _know about it. Don't expect a solid night's sleep for a few months."

Hawke groaned and dropped her head to his shoulder, letting him pat her head in commiseration, though it wasn't needed. She didn't plan on being here in the next few months, after all.

* * *

><p>Do not dwell on it.<p>

That was the rule Fenris had given himself after he and Hawke had parted five days ago. Do not consider the other ways that fight may have ended, nor what he nearly did.

He was not capable of being obedient to himself.

He tried to distract himself with the information he had learned – Kirkwall, freedom, friends, a _mansion_. He was able to hold his own attention for the first few days, but the longer he considered what he had learned, the more he realised it was not enough. He still knew far less about his own life than either Hawke or Danarius did.

He had still only seen Hawke for training, but he was certain that if he asked her anything now, she would tell him. Yet she was limited by what he had told her in the past – and even before returning to Minrathous, he had little more than a decade of memories of being free. His early life was that of a slave, and the two people who would recall the entirety of it were dead. The other slaves in Danarius' employ were either too young or new to the household to remember. The few that might have known him as a child would not tell him even if he asked.

That left Danarius, who Fenris already knew would not answer any questions he had. He doubted the magister would have accounts of his early life, but surely he would have recorded his first branding. There must be notes, somewhere, and perhaps they would contain a few details on his background. With Varania dead, it was the most he could hope for now.

Danarius had shut himself inside his workshop again. He banned anyone from entering his quarters when he was working. Fenris in particular he had never allowed back in the room since the ritual. The slaves never had a reason to disobey the order; it meant less work for them.

That meant the slave passages would be empty.

Fenris could hear it as he approached the door. Screaming, long and drawn-out and so wild he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. As he slipped silently into the corridor and closed the passage door behind him, he glanced to his left at the workshop door. The screaming came from there. Now he was closer, he could hear Danarius beneath the noise, swearing. No pain or fear in his voice, just frustration. An experiment, then.

Fenris set his jaw and turned away. Whoever was screaming would be dead soon. People went in. Recently, whole bodies came out. Before, they left in pieces, or were washed down the gutter.

The screams gave him a cover as he carefully opened Danarius' office door. He would have until the screaming stopped. He had to leave before then.

He never thought, nearly two months ago now, when he realised he could read that he would use the skill to spy on his master's papers.

It wouldn't be anything on his desk, it would be something old, filed away. Fenris opened the drawers in the desk, cringing at the proximity of the lyrium lines in the polished rock to his own. The veins of lyrium in his hands and arms ached, stray sparks racing down to his fingertips.

The first drawer had stationary in it, spare parchment and quills, another inkwell, Danarius' seal on a ring he used for official letters.

The second drawer had lyrium potions, health potions, a small knife.

The third had a small notebook. Fenris froze for a moment, his heart tightening painfully, before snatching it up and reading the writing on the front.

There wasn't much. Only a year, actually. 9:37 Dragon.

Fenris closed his eyes and dropped his hands back to his sides for a moment, biting down a curse. This year. Useless to him. Unless...

He lifted the book to his eyes again, opening it and carefully thumbing through it, wary of damaging the pages with his gauntlets. They were experimentation notes, as he'd expected. He saw anatomical sketches, formulas, diagrams, a sketch of a scarred elf. Fenris flicked through to the start of Solis. He wasn't sure of the exact date of his arrival in the Imperium, or of the ritual. The first date he was fully conscious was the first of Matrinalis, after several days of lying in his room, semiconscious.

There was nothing until the end of the month, the 25th. Then he saw his name, and quickly flipped back a page to the start of the entry. He made himself pause before reading, listening carefully. Still screaming.

He took a breath, and turned back to the notebook, scanning quickly.

_25__th__ Solis_

_Subject has been restrained... uncertain of consequences for procedure. Subject already has significant volume of lyrium implanted, therefore the volume of lyrium to be implanted will be an eighth of in the original procedure to reduce chances of lyrium poisoning..._

There were a list of figures, his weight, height, how much he had ate in the previous twenty four hours. Nothing, nothing on his history-

_Full notes on subject in notebook 9:20. Reference for comparison._

His heart seemed to run into itself as it both lifted with hope and crashed with disappointment. 9:20. Seventeen years ago. He wasn't sure of his exact age, but he couldn't have been very old when first branded. A young man, not long out of adolescence at the oldest, surely.

Fenris looked up from the notebook, glanced at the door. The screaming was weaker now, exhausted. Still time, still time. But there were several libraries in the estate, how to know which one?

No, they wouldn't be kept anywhere someone else could get to them. Danarius would keep them close, somewhere safe. His quarters? No, there was only a single bookcase, and he'd spent enough time staring at those spines to know they didn't match this one, nor were there enough to account for all the years of notes-

There were cabinets all around this room, made of dark wood. None of them had a visible lock. Maybe these.

Fenris carefully replaced the current notebook where he'd found it, closed the drawer. He turned to the closest cabinet, carefully opening the doors.

Bookshelves, filled with books. Fenris scanned the spines, head turned so one ear was towards the door.

No. Manuals, spell tomes, no notebooks. He moved onto the next one, careful to close the doors behind him.

No. No. No.

He threw open the doors of the fifth cabinet and froze. Small, black, leather-bound books, no titles on the spines. The same as the book in the drawer.

The screaming stopped, and Fenris froze again.

Move. _Move!_

He grabbed a book from the middle shelf, stared at the front. 9:07. He hastily stuffed it back and snatched one from the shelf below. 9:24. He threw it back, fingers skimming four books back, his gauntlets snagging on the leather. 9:20. Go.

He closed the doors and spun, moving as quickly and silently towards the door as he could. A quick glance out showed the workshop door was still closed. Fenris bolted on quiet feet towards the slave passage, resisting the urge to slam the door closed behind him. He leaned against it, heart bounding inside his chest, and listened as the workshop door opened. Two shuffling steps and the slow tap of a staff.

Fenris waited, eyes closed, head leaning back against the hidden door until Danarius' footsteps had receded down the corridor and into his office.

He finally let out a soft, shaky breath and dropped his chin to his chest, trying to calm his erratic heart. When he lifted the little book to open it, his hands felt shaky though they appeared steady.

He flipped through the pages, scanning for his name. It was only at the middle of Cloudreach did something catch his eye.

Leto. Of course, 'Fenris' hadn't been his name then.

Trying to convince himself his breathing was steady, Fenris turned back to the start of the entry – several pages long – and started to read.

* * *

><p>He was distracted. She could see, plain as day, that something was playing on Fenris' mind.<p>

Not that she was much better, Hawke thought as she failed to suppress a yawn. She knew that it must have been worse when the twins were born, what with there being two of them and Carver being just plain greedy, but her sleep-deprived mind was telling Hawke that this was the worst experience of babies she had ever had, and Enansal's wasn't even a full day old yet.

It was lucky that Fenris was as unfocused as he was, since she would be a mass of bruises otherwise. As things stood, they were both equally battered by the time training finished and Hawke dumped her training daggers on the weapons bench.

She stretched her arms and shoulders as she stepped away, appreciating the dragging burn of well-used muscle. She was stronger now, no longer exhausted by a few hours' work. She was still nowhere near her old fitness level, of course, but there were flat, wiry muscles on her bones now.

Fenris was standing a few feet away, prodding at a bruise on his arm as he waited for her.

Hawke paused, frowning. Usually he headed straight back to work after training.

He glanced up from his arm and met her eyes before tilting his head towards the estate. She spread her hands slightly, a silent question. He just shuffled and stared at her, wordlessly pleading.

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him, but obeyed and fell into step beside him, even though that little voice in her head was reminding her what had happened the last time they were alone in a room together. They ended up in the servants' galley again, tearing into the half duck left out. They were both still a little cautious, keeping a respectable distance between themselves where they sat in front of the fire.

Once they'd stripped the carcass to the bone, Fenris started fidgeting. Hawke raised an eyebrow at him while she wiped the grease from her mouth. Usually she was the one who couldn't sit still.

"Alright, talk to me Fenris. You've been distracted since training started and you don't have a new-born baby crying every two hours as an excuse. What is it?"

He'd started when she spoke, and a guilty grimace twitched at his mouth when she continued. He bowed his head, but lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "My apologies. I have had a lot to think about. I-" He hesitated, teetering on speech, before drawing a breath and ploughing onwards. "I found – well, went looking for – my Master's notes on me, from the first ritual. I wanted to know if there was anything about my history in them. My early life, before you knew me," he said, nodding towards her.

Ah. That made a lot of sense. "And you found something?" She spoke slowly, although she was certain she was right. He wouldn't have been so distracted otherwise.

He nodded, but frowned. "Only a little. They were his experimentation notes, mostly to do with the procedure itself, but… they had my age, a brief description of my history, my temperament." He huffed, nearly a laugh. "That, at least, hasn't changed much. Though I was far more foolish then, brash. Overconfident." He paused, rubbing his left thumb over his right wrist. "My father was from Rivain, though it did not say who he was, if he was a slave or not. My mother was born a slave here in Minrathous, though her family hailed from Seheron. She was not one of Danarius' slaves, we belonged to a neighbouring magister." He shook his head, staring down at the worn terracotta tiles. "I do not know why I was given as a subject, but apparently there was an agreement to free my mother and sister."

"You fought for it," Hawke said quietly. Fenris looked up quickly, and she elaborated. "Varania said so, in Kirkwall. I don't know if it was a tournament or what, but she said you competed for your markings. The prize was a single boon, of the winner's choosing. You won, and chose to free your family." She waited for the frustration and anger that she had not told him this sooner, even as she noted that she was closer to the door.

Instead, he ducked his head again, nodding. "I see." He drew in a deep breath, nodding to himself as if to reaffirm what he knew. "I was eighteen, when I was branded. 9:20 Dragon. That would make me thirty-five now. I feel older."

"You and me both." That drew a tentative smile out of him, then a curious bob of his head in her direction.

"And you, Hawke? How old are you?"

She grinned, starting to relax despite herself. "Honestly Fenris, don't you know it's rude to ask a lady her age?"

He just raised a dark eyebrow, unimpressed. "A good job you're no lady, then."

"Hey!" The intended indignation was lost in her splutter of laughter, and she resorted to throwing a duck foot at him. "My estate in Hightown would beg to differ!"

"Mine wouldn't," he said, flicking the foot aside with a curled lip before turning it into one of those dry smiles. "If a mansion made a noble, surely mine would no longer have mushrooms in it. And you're avoiding the question."

Hawke chuckled, shaking her head. "Fine, fine. I'm thirty, thirty one in Firstfall. Mother would be horrified I'd gone this long and not given her grandchildren yet, I'm sure. She was threatening to find a husband for me before she died, and that was three years ago." _And you were relieved when she had her own secret admirer to distract her. No, stop it. No use thinking that now._

"This was before our... ah..." Fenris trailed off, his hand moving between them vaguely.

'_Perfect description, that,'_ she thought, but decided to spare him the embarrassment and nodded instead. "Yes, a few weeks before. Mother died not long after. It was a difficult few months."

Fenris looked down at the tiles between his feet, hair hiding his eyes. "I see. I apologise if I contributed to that."

Hawke shook her hair back and waved his words aside. "It's fine. Oddly enough, you helped a bit. We'd not really been talking beyond what was absolutely necessary. When Mother passed, you came to make sure I was alright. We didn't say much, but after that we were almost back to normal. It helped, having my friends around me. Then you offered full access to your wine cellar, and, well..." She laughed, and even Fenris smiled. "It wasn't the best way to cope with things, and I believe I hid in the darkest room I could find in your manor for most of the next day, but it let me relax enough to grieve properly. I started to improve after that. You never let me near the cellar again though," she teased.

"I should think not, if I lost as much wine as I assume I did in a single night. Will I have to keep an eye on you at the Masquerade, Hawke?" He answered, turning a mock-wary gaze on her.

"Oh, hark you! You can't talk anyway, you drank more than me. You just coped with it better than I did. So no, you won't." Not for drunkenness, anyway. Homicide, on the other hand... "Speaking of which, what do you think will happen? Bar the traditional assassination attempts, I mean." She couldn't just come out and ask him if he'd mind her killing Danarius, much as she wanted to. But if she could get a sense of what to expect, it could only benefit her in the long-run. If she could steer the conversation there, she might be able to see how receptive he was to leaving, or at least plant the idea.

Fenris hummed in thought, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he watched the fire. "Truly, I am not certain. To my knowledge, I have never attended anything on this scale before... although, this being the celebration of a Somniari magister, I doubt anyone in living memory has either. But thus far I have not even attended a large party to have an idea of what to expect. Danarius has been caught up in his experiments lately, and has only attended important meetings or social calls he could not afford to miss." He looked up at her, fingers flaring out from his mouth as he lifted his shoulders in a shrug, sitting back and dropping his hands to his knees. "Although I imagine there will be a lot of noise, confusion, and displays. The hall in which it will be held is extraordinary, its size equal to half of the East wing, maybe more. There are many side-doors and alcoves, pillars to hide behind. This will be the biggest gathering of the Imperium's elite in decades, maybe centuries. With crowds that large, poison will be more than easy to slip a victim. I expect several deaths at least. The Archon seems determined to make the bodyguards' lives as difficult as possible."

"How nice of him," Hawke muttered. The last thing she needed was for someone else to bump off Danarius without warning. Fenris was a coveted slave; there'd probably be a riot to claim ownership of him. Getting him away from a different magister might well be harder than escaping Danarius. She couldn't take that gamble. Briefly, she wondered why not. Why not let Danarius die and the other magisters kill each other over a lyrium warrior.

Because then everything you've been through will be for nothing. Every minute you've stayed here because of him, every second of pain and humiliation, wasted. No. She'd get him out, free them both. After that, she didn't know.

Behind it all, there was the nagging insistence that it would hurt her too much to leave him, no matter what he'd done. That she would do the same to anyone who had killed Carver or Bethany. She crushed that little voice down. Her siblings had never betrayed her, sold her out to a monster for their own gain. In this, her and Fenris' situations were nothing alike.

"Hawke?"

She looked up, mouth still tight. He was watching her, puzzled, wary... concerned? Maybe, in the lines around his eyes.

She was tired of tiptoeing around him.

"If you were set free tomorrow, no strings attached-" she started suddenly, ignoring the surprised huff he gave. "-What would you do?"

He stared at her, disbelieving. "That depends," he said slowly. "Does this hypothetical freedom come with a large sack of gold to use?"

Her solemn mood cracked a little and Hawke snorted, nodding. "For argument's sake, yes. Enough to enable whatever it is you want to do."

Fenris hummed. "Truly, I haven't given it much thought. There isn't much time for idle fantasies. However..." he paused, thinking, staring at a crack in the tiles a few feet away. "I... suppose I would go to Kirkwall, if only to see where I have lived for seven years. Maybe travel a while. I have no family remaining that I know of, so there is no one I would try to seek out." He sat back, sighing through his nose, a tiny frown between his eyebrows before he looked up at her. "I don't know. What are you supposed to do with freedom?"

Hawke shrugged. "You're not _supposed_ to do anything with it. Just whatever you want, whenever you want. Live the way you want to, without orders or fear." She paused, eyes looking at the tiles between them, but unfocused as she spoke. "Would you take it? If the chance of freedom came tomorrow, would you take it?" She met his gaze, her own clear and hard.

He stared back for a long moment. She could almost see him weighing her words, looking for a trap or test. Dragging his words out as he thought them through, he responded. "I... don't know. I'd expect there to be a condition, or trick." He paused, his own expression open but she could see his mind working behind it. He knew something was wrong. "Are we still talking hypothetically?"

She answered him steadily, never dropping her gaze. "I don't know, Fenris. Are we?"

* * *

><p>'<em>No.'<em>

The word hovered on his tongue, parted his lips, but didn't make a sound. Were they?

She was talking about an escape. An escape he was part of.

They'd never make it. _'Yes.'_

Freedom, a life, no longer bound by fear and duty and revulsion with no where else to go. _'No.'_

And if you fail? The pain, the helplessness, the punishments. Only two of you, against a magister. Against the Imperium. _'Yes.'_

'_I really, really need you to trust me, Fenris. So tell me, please. Can you?"_

He'd answered poorly that day. Honestly, but poorly. She'd made that clear.

She wasn't talking about Danarius now. Just him. What he wanted. _'No.'_

Of course she was talking about Danarius. They would escape from him – and he wouldn't let them go. Not while he breathed. He suspected he knew what Hawke's answer to that would be. But... would that be so terrible? Danarius, dead and gone, beyond hurting them.

You're considering the _murder_ of an Imperial citizen – a magister, no less. How would that not be terrible?

'_Quite easily.'_ The thought surged up, unbidden, resentful. Fenris drew back, bewildered, even as the word shot from his mouth, firm, angry, stemming from the same place as the thought. "_No._"

Hawke blinked, leaning back, her face suddenly open and confused. "Fenris?" There was the vulnerability she hadn't dared to show him for days, clear in her voice.

He bowed his head, rubbing his forehead and breathing steadily, eyes squeezed shut. He tried to chase the feeling, the thought, back to its source. That anger had to come from somewhere – certainly not recently, not within his current span of memories-

Nothing. The resentment was fading into dissatisfaction, then less than that. Seconds after it had come, the feeling drained away. He slowly sat back, sighing in disappointment as he opened his eyes. Hawke was watching him, her gaze sharp.

"Anything?" So she knew what had happened. Fenris wondered if that invalidated his answer.

He shook his head. "Nothing concrete. Just... anger. Bitterness. Nothing connected to them."

"You're sure?" She was firm, challenging even. Pushing him.

He was about to snap at her, of course he was sure – but then he caught the look in her eye, and remembered what the emotion had caused. No, they weren't speaking of a hypothetical freedom. Killing a magister wouldn't be so terrible. That was where the anger came from. "I... No. I'm not." He sighed again, dragging a hand through his hair. "None of this makes sense," he muttered. Maybe it did before the ritual. He was becoming more certain that he'd been quite different before it than he was now. Not entirely, but enough to be jarring.

Hawke bowed her head, a sad, lopsided smile on her face. "It does to me," she said quietly.

Fenris nodded, conceding her point. More evidence for his differences. What would happen if he did regain his memories? If all this anger was from before, what would happen? Would he become that person again? Would he lose who he was, right now? Or would there be a compromise between the two – maybe even three – parts of him? He'd focused so long on simply regaining what was his, that he'd never considered the consequences. Maybe he wouldn't like who he had been – who he would become. He shook his head. It didn't matter. He couldn't just put away his past like that, run away from it because of something that _might_ happen.

"Do you stand by what you said? About leaving?" Her voice was softer again, no longer pressing him. He still needed to answer.

He sighed, spreading his hands in doubt and shaking his head. "I didn't know how to answer you. I still don't, truly, but... I am... open to the possibility." That was as much certainty as he had. That he wouldn't reject the idea out of hand. "I cannot give you more than that. Not yet." He risked a look up at her through his hair, trying to judge her expression. "Is that enough?"

There was disappointment there, yes, but also a grim acceptance. She nodded her head. "For now." Then a tight little smile started. "Besides, if we left tomorrow we'd miss the Masquerade. Biggest party of the Age. Couldn't miss that, could we?"

Fenris narrowed his eyes at her, feeling that there was something more meaningful behind her words. A hint. "No, we couldn't," he said slowly, even as the realisation dawned.

27th Parvulis. He had five days to decide whether or not to flee with Hawke.

One of the clocks chimed. In a daze, Fenris gestured at the sound before clambering to his feet. "I should return to work. I've delayed too long already. But, Hawke," he paused as he strapped his sword to his back, meeting her eyes squarely even though his skin was prickling, urging him to look away, to stay silent. "I will have a real answer for you. You have my word."

* * *

><p>Hawke watched him turn away, jaw clenching. He had no way of knowing those were the exact words he'd said to Hadriana before he killed her. As he walked away she raised her voice. "I just hope it's the right one."<p>

He hesitated in the doorway, head turned towards her but not quite looking back over his shoulder. Then he bowed his head and walked on, wordless.

Maker, please make the right choice.


	23. Chapter 23

Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait, but here it is. The beginning of the end, and a lot happens in this chapter. I've had the majority of it (after the section break) sitting in a document on my laptop for literally years, since the first few chapters had been posted. It's been edited but I'm still a bit worried about the quality of it, both technically and content-wise, and how well it flows so let me know what you guys think!

In other news, I am now officially a graduate, hoping to get my first book finished this year (47k already done!) and cannot wait for Inquisition.

I don't think any warnings are needed here, bar the usual death and destruction and mayhem.

I'd like to respond to Lotska here if you're reading, since you were an anon and I couldn't answer you privately. I've checked the chapter you messaged me about, and there is definitely a warning there, so I'm not sure why it isn't showing up for you. It was chapter 15, yes? If you see this, feel free to message me again and I'll try and find out what's going on and fix it for you – I'd hate to make you uncomfortable if the warnings aren't showing for some reason. If anyone else spots any missing warnings, just let me know!

That's it from me, other than the usual hope that you like it. You're all wonderful, and thank you for sticking with me for so long, and reviewing if you do. Each person who reads this, whether you offer feedback or not, is precious to me. I'll stop now before I start channelling Gollum. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>This was it. The day of the Masquerade. The day she left the Imperium, one way or the other.<p>

Hawke had been excused from her usual duties an hour before they were due to leave, to give her time to wash – in an actual bath, though only a metal one hung on the washhouse wall usually reserved for the live-in servants – dress in her Champion armour, and join Fenris for the final briefing. The elf was in his newer set of leathers, with a brand new chest plate, his gauntlets carefully polished. He still hadn't given her an answer, and her nerves were starting to fray. She barely heard what Danarius said, just nodded in the right places and repeated her job after Fenris did and Danarius turned to her. Before they left, the magister handed her a belt like Fenris', with several pouches and pockets. It was heavy, a soft clinking coming from the compartments as she buckled it around her waist. Smoke bombs, it turned out, along with health and stamina potions that Fenris also received. She wasn't too surprised she hadn't been trusted with poisons. She wasn't given her daggers either; that would happen right after they left the carriage so that she couldn't use them on Danarius in confined quarters. Not that either of them would be riding with him, of course, but it only took a second to open the door, lean in and insert a dagger between his ribs.

They were excused a half hour before they were due to leave while Danarius finished his preparations, giving them some time to eat and for Hawke to dart back into the slave quarters. The belt solved a problem she'd been having – exactly how to smuggle the Amell shield out. If need be, she would have left it, but she didn't want to. It was the only thing left from Kirkwall that was really hers after her knives had vanished with the Champion's armour and failed to return. Well, it was Fenris' technically, but she'd been the one to hold onto it this whole time, she'd been the one who remembered what it meant to them both. And with everything that had happened recently... she sighed as she ran a thumb over the dented metal, the chipped paint, kneeling on her thin bedroll for the last time. Maybe she wouldn't be giving it back.

"Who- oh, Hawke?"

She turned quickly at the voice, relaxing when she saw Enansal staring at her, her son strapped to her back. Using her body to screen the movement, Hawke slid the shield into the largest pouch, on the inside of it between the smoke bomb vials and her hip as Enansal laughed.

"Maker, I didn't recognise you! Is... is that your old armour then?"She asked as Hawke pushed to her feet.

Hawke nodded. "Yes. It's more impressive from a distance though," she said with a smile, moving to carefully lift the baby from his harness.

"Oh, I don't know about that. Thank you," Enansal added, groaning as she stretched her spine before untying the sling. Hawke shook her head in sympathy, only for the baby to grab onto her hair and gum it. She laughed as Enansal freed her, only then realising that this would be the last time she saw her. That she was abandoning this young woman and her baby to a life of slavery. She was leaving all of them behind.

_If you don't, you won't get out yourself. You can't save them all._

Even if she, somehow, miraculously, could free the whole estate, what then? Orana had taken _months_ to stop having panic attacks whenever something went wrong, or she thought she'd spoken "out of turn" despite everyone telling her repeatedly that there was no such thing. Even now, years later, she still called her 'mistress'. She refused to take a sick day unless Hawke sat and supervised her in bed, otherwise she'd find her staggering about the kitchen trying to cook without fainting. Even if they all somehow had no such problems, she would be leaving. Many of them considered Tevinter their home. Those born to slavery would be stuck wandering the streets, with no idea of how to truly be free or how to support themselves outside of slavery. Those captured might be a bit better off, but it would be so easy for them to simply be recaptured and put straight back on the slave market.

Quite simply, there was nothing she could do. If her plan played out the way she hoped, Hawke wouldn't be returning to the estate tonight. There'd be no chance to help anyone here – she couldn't risk returning and being captured for murder. She'd lose her best chance at escape.

A hand brushed her elbow and Hawke stirred from thought, blinking rapidly. Enansal smiled at her, but there was concern there as well. "Hawke? You were miles away there." She held her hands out, and Hawke shook her head to clear it, handing the baby over.

"Maker, sorry, I- sorry. Lot on my mind," she said, running a hand over her face. Enansal just nodded in understanding, running her thumb over her son's cheek. Hawke gently brushed the back of his hand, smiling when it turned and he grabbed hold of her finger. "Have you decided on a name yet?" She asked chuckling and curling her finger around his hand when he tried to eat it, so that her nail wouldn't scratch his mouth.

Enansal hummed in thought, gently patting his back. "I was thinking of Manehn."

"Manehn. That's nice. Is that Dalish?" Hawke asked. It sounded similar to some of the words and phrases she'd heard Merrill come out with over the years. Get her drunk, and she'd babble solely in Dalish until she was slurring incoherently, then pass out on the table. They'd never let her have a full bottle to herself after that.

Enansal nodded. "It means 'my joy'. Mother's little tradition, to keep the old ways alive, even here. All her children had Dalish names. Well, until they were sold. Their new parents probably renamed them."

Hawke glanced at the young elf out of the corner of her eye, before looking back to Manehn and his shock of blonde hair. "You're the only one left?"

"Yes. The eldest. Mother couldn't cope with several children at once, so they waited until they were weaned – or close enough – then sold them to families who couldn't have their own. It's a better life for them, I suppose, or that's what Mother told me. They went to wealthy families all over Thedas as heirs, not slaves. Funny, to think that one of my little brothers or sisters might look to inherit a place like this," she said, looking up and around as if seeing the whole estate instead of the shabby, dim slave quarters.

"Yeah," Hawke agreed weakly. Knowing your child would be raised to treat you like filth, should you ever encounter them again, didn't strike her as a good future. Maybe the ones that left the Imperium would be a bit better off, but Enansal's mother was still an elf. Perhaps Kirkwall was just beyond all hope, but the nobles Hawke had been forced to rub elbows with in the city would have treated Enansal little better than the magisters did.

She didn't want to be here anymore, talking about the ways in which the Imperium was corrupt and faced with everything she was abandoning. Drawing in a deep breath, Hawke straightened and turned partway towards the door, giving Enansal an apologetic smile. "Listen, I've got to get going. Can't keep the master waiting, after all," she said.

Enansal pressed one hand to her mouth, eyes widening. "Ooh, of course! Don't let me keep you." She made shooing movements with her free hand, as if to sweep Hawke out the door. "Hope everything goes well, see you tomorrow!"

She'd been walking to the door, grinning, but that almost stopped her in her tracks. _No you won't._ Her step faltered, but she masked it by turning and giving a weak smile over her shoulder. "Yeah. Goodbye, Enansal." She gave a mechanical grin when the elf waved her son's hand at her, managed to keep herself together until she was out the door and partway down the hall before slumping against the wall. One way or another, she wouldn't be seeing the young mother again.

* * *

><p>The hall was thick with colour; from the banners and standards of each House, to the magnificent ball gowns, suits and intricate masks of the nobles filling the huge ballroom.<p>

Hawke couldn't help staring around in stunned amazement at the splendour. Not even the grandest ball in Kirkwall had come close to rivalling this decadent masquerade.

Only the slaves were unmasked; she and Fenris both stood behind and beside Danarius. They would have been leashed, but Fenris would need to be able to move quickly if anyone was bold or stupid enough to attempt an assassination in the middle of the ball, and Danarius had made some low aside that it was good for the other mages to see he could manage the Champion of Kirkwall without the need for restraints. Hawke had bit her tongue, ignored him, and returned to visualising the pattern the blood spatter would fall in if she were to ram the magister's skull into the long, fancy dining table he was seated at. Repeatedly.

Feynriel had been admitted to the ranks of the magisters in an earlier ceremony that only the magisters could attend, but everyone knew that this 'after party' was the main event of the past two ages, and probably wouldn't be surpassed in the same amount of time. Being invited was the highest honour any noble could ask for.

There were two hours set aside at the start of the ball to allow everyone to arrive, followed by a further hour of dancing, then all the guests would be seated and the magisters would begin to show their 'exhibits', as Feynriel had termed them. Danarius, as a high-ranking magister, was listed as one of the first to show off his prized possessions.

From behind Danarius' chair, Hawke was able to exchange the odd glance with Fenris when his keen eyes landed briefly on her during his constant scanning of the hall for dangers.

Due to the nature of a mage's power, weapons weren't banned from the hall. All the magisters brought their staffs, and their bodyguards were all armed. This made things slightly more difficult when it came to spotting a threat, but Fenris was well trained enough to be able to distinguish between a fellow guard and an assassin.

As the third hour drew to a close, the nobles started to take their seats, and the talk slowly settled into a low, anticipative thrum as the audience waited for the entertainment to begin.

Hawke would give the magisters one thing: they knew how to put on a show. There were newly invented, purely decorative spells that the audience cooed over like miniature, brightly coloured explosions that were apparently harmless. One detonated right next to Hawke, and all she felt was a gentle fizz against her skin. Others, nobles and magisters alike, had produced non-magical entertainment; poetry, artwork, sculptures, even an attempt at recreating the dwarven golems of old, though the enchantment needed frequent renewing, and would fade if the caster died. After her time in the Deep Roads encountering golems both passive and otherwise, Hawke could see the difference between the real thing and this... approximation. It was a nice effort, but the magister had failed.

When it was Danarius' turn, he stepped into the centre of the floor, Fenris following him closely. The audience fell almost silent. Many, if not all, had heard of Danarius' errant lyrium warrior. People sat forward, eager to see the warrior for themselves.

Hawke managed to channel out much of Danarius' grand blathering about the process of creating a lyrium warrior – it was all very vague and unhelpful, so no one could copy his work, but it gave him something to say.

Then he mentioned a demonstration.

"Now, I believe Magister Ferox has generously offered a subject for this demonstration," Danarius said, nodding cordially to a seated man who seemed far too interested in the demonstration for Hawke's liking. The other magister returned the motion, then called for the subject to be brought in.

The grand doors opened, and two guards escorted a young elvhen man in. He was obviously a slave, and utterly petrified. The guards had to march him down the aisle between the ring of seats into the centre of attention, where he stood, quivering from head to foot.

Hawke's eyes narrowed as she looked between the young man, Fenris and Danarius. The warrior's expression was closed off, unreadable. Danarius simply maintained the faint, arrogant smile he favoured, and stepped back to his seat so as not to obstruct anyone's view with only one order.

"Kill, pet."

For a moment, Hawke thought Fenris was going to disobey. He stood motionless, his blank eyes fixed on the shaking man.

But then she saw his steadying breath in, his markings flared and his hand punched through the man's chest.

Hawke heard a distinctive snap, and saw the body go limp before Fenris had withdrawn his arm.

It was just like the would-be poisoner during Tiberius and Larentia's visit. Snapped spine, no sensations as the heart was crushed and stilled.

The audience still shrieked as Fenris pulled the motionless heart from its cage, leaving the body to collapse, now that nothing was holding it up.

Fenris stood in the hall, his right forearm slick with blood, a heart in his hand, waiting silently for another order as his markings died back to their quiet silver.

Hawke's heart gave a sickened, sympathetic twinge for the lonely, feared figure, and her anger started to build as the guards came in to carry the body, and the heart, away and Danarius resumed the floor. He seemed unperturbed, even pleased, that the audience had substituted applause with hushed conversation and reverent, covetous looks. The magister's voice rapidly quelled all whispers, however.

"Of course, my little Fenris is also a skilled warrior; not just a glorified butcher. I'm sure he will be happy to prove this to all of you, as will my second, final exhibit...the Champion of Kirkwall."

Hawke took a deep breath. This was it. Then she slowly walked forwards at Danarius' commanding wave, moving to stand beside Fenris and trying to keep her expression as blank as his. Tension was radiating from his body as Danarius recounted the daring, dangerous and utterly false tale of how he had recaptured Fenris and caught the Champion in the same brilliant manoeuvre. Hawke didn't dare glance at him for fear of catching his eye and giving away to the audience that Danarius was lying through his teeth.

"So, we shall see who the better combatant is: a rare, powerful lyrium warrior capable of impossible feats, or the woman who defeated the qunari Arishok in single combat."

Hawke looked at Fenris as Danarius retreated back to his seat, and found him staring back as he slowly took his sword from his back and fell into his familiar battle stance.

Taking in a breath, Hawke drew her borrowed blades and settled into her own position.

It was only a spar, really. But now Hawke knew why Danarius had instructed her to train with the guards, and agreed to give her more food. She was still too thin, and didn't have the toning she used to, but she had enough stamina to maintain her old, flashy style for a few minutes, even at full exertion.

Hawke's eyebrow hitched when, for the audience's benefit, the musicians began to play a slow, dangerous introduction that matched their calculated circling. She thought Fenris' mouth thinned and curved at the corners, trying to suppress a smile, but it was so slight it could have been a trick of the light. Either way, she was the only one who saw it.

_That's the way to treat this. A bit of fun, a lark because we can. Just some training like in his old mansion. _For a split second she could see Danarius behind Fenris' left shoulder, and had to suppress a grin as her own challenge came back to her, unbidden. _First one to break the creepy Tevinter statue wins._ Of course, Fenris had taken to _that_ with gusto-

Fenris lunged forward, and the musicians followed. Hawke leapt back from the attack and, with a challenging smile, struck out at his back as he turned to follow. He'd brought his blade around, and her dagger rebounded, only for her to flow with the movement and spin out of reach of Fenris' next slash.

They whirled around each other, just out of range, then Hawke dropped and rolled under his guard and struck upwards, only for Fenris to jump back and bring his blade down towards her. Another roll took her out of harm's way, but she had to dart to her feet and throw up her guard as Fenris changed tactics and struck at her immediately, not giving her time to think.

They both fell back onto their old instincts and patterns; they just knew where the other was, even when one of them tricked the other and got behind them, the fooled party was already countering, blocking, parrying, and turning back to the fight.

She'd been holding back on him, Fenris realised. A whole month of daily training, and she'd never pushed him like this before. Finesse and grace she'd always had, but this wasn't the sparse, practical style he'd become accustomed to. This was flashy, acrobatic, _entertaining. _He actually had cause for concern when she would twist in the air suddenly, a blade whistling for his neck. He could always block, but so could she. More than that, something about this new style just... _fit_. Always, there had been something missing in her training sessions. Oh, her combat was fine, but there'd been a nagging feeling of something not being right. Now it clicked.

He found himself smiling back, actually enjoying himself. He didn't care that there were over one hundred nobles watching, eager for blood. All that mattered was that he and Hawke were the best fighters in the room, trading blows with a familiar ease that didn't feel strange to him.

Hawke's focus narrowed down to the exchange of steel, and only brief flashes of vision between strikes offered her tantalising glimpses of the world outside the battle. Excited faces. Gasps. Flinches when a blade looked about ready to hit, only for the other to twist away, out of danger. A woman's gold, elaborate choker. A glint of white armour. A holstered crossbow. Feathers.

Her breath coming harder now, Hawke grimaced as she shoved Fenris back, feeling fatigue starting to gnaw at her muscles. The two of them fell back into a wary circle again, giving Hawke the room she needed to expand her awareness. She didn't take her eyes off Fenris, but she allowed other information to filter in. In her peripheral vision, she scanned the crowd as they slowly revolved, doubting the glimpses she'd seen in the now standing audience.

The light glinted off of copper hair, and she was nearly distracted.

Fenris lunged, dragging her attention away from the noblewoman with the red hair and back into the spar.

She could see his eyes darting over her critically as they engaged briefly then spun away, and detected a miniscule reduction in the strength of his blows, a tiny decrease in his speed. He knew she was getting tired, and was trying to compensate.

It wouldn't be enough, though. Hawke was dragging in laboured breaths, and her arms shook every time she parried a strike.

They locked blades again, and she breathed '_finish this_' over the crossed lines of metal. He dipped his head as he shoved her back, the closest he could give her to a nod, then with an apparent snarl of impatience, his markings flared.

But still, that competitiveness tugged at her.

Fenris was nothing but a silver blue blur as he rushed her, but she knew that move well enough to calculate exactly where he'd stop.

The greatsword swung, and she felt cold metal lick her throat as, abruptly, Fenris was there, standing less than an arm length away, blade at her neck, her dagger's point resting just beneath his uplifted arm against the gap in his armour. A good shove would pierce his heart. His blade rested against the frantic fluttering of the skin over her jugular. The audience had a thrilling stalemate.

They loved it.

As Hawke and Fenris relaxed during the applause Danarius' first demonstration hadn't received, Hawke finally saw the slinking, subtle movements amongst the frenzy of the crowd. A blue bandana, in a far corner of the room near a guard, made Hawke's heart leap. Then a distinctive laugh reached her ears and she turned. There, right at the front of the crowd, grinning at a joke with his thumbs hooked into his belt, Bianca over his shoulder, was Varric.

He met her eyes squarely, winked, and then pursed his lips in a piercing wolf whistle. The people closest to him looked at him; others further away looked around, some frowning at the 'inappropriate' behaviour. He just raised his eyebrows at her and nodded. In the corner, the bandana had vanished, the guard nowhere to be seen.

She looked, once, at Fenris, and saw realisation dawning on his face. Before he could turn to warn Danarius, Hawke seized his wrist hard enough to make him dart a look at her, pretending to shake hands sportingly so that the nobles didn't take note of their odd behaviour.

"Trust me," she whispered. She was silent in the noise of the crowd, but she saw understanding breaking in Fenris' eyes as he read her lips. He hesitated long enough for smoke bombs to go off.

The cheers and applause turned into shocked exclamations and coughs. Then the screaming started.

Hawke nearly lost her hold on Fenris as he spotted a coat with black feathers on the shoulders and tried to run towards them. Hawke grabbed hold of him properly, dragging him to a stop. He turned to her, anger and adrenaline making his eyes spark as somewhere a door hit a wall and a volley of loud bellowing and barking added to the chaos.

"What are you doing?" he demanded; ducking as a spell flew over his head. The magisters were rapidly organising themselves as the smoke cleared; Hawke had to shout over the bark of orders and the yell of the felled or injured. Thankfully, none of the voices were familiar.

"They aren't our enemy, Fenris!" He stared at her, doubt roiling in his eyes. They both had to jump out of the way of a running magister, and watched as a familiar crossbow bolt lodged itself in his back.

Hawke spun with a grin, and waved as Varric hollered across the hall to her.

"Sorry the cavalry's late! Who knew organising an invasion took so long? Duck!" He added, and Hawke obeyed immediately, dragging Fenris with her as a fireball went careening over their heads, turning a group of mages into cinders.

"Sorry sis!" A female voice called, followed by a squeal and the distinctive sound of someone being cracked over the head with a heavy staff. Hawke looked up gawped to see Bethany standing over a guard who'd tried to sneak up on her, peering down at him anxiously. The man groaned, and Hawke's sweet baby sister drew back and whacked him again. He didn't make another sound. She'd donned her old apostate's gear, presumably because anyone wearing the Orlesian Chantry's robes would be killed on sight in Tevinter.

Beside her, she felt Fenris tense, then she was half picked up, half dragged out of the path of a chunk of stone flying merrily into the gut of another guard. Hawke recognised Merrill's handiwork, but had no time to look for the Dalish elf as she babbled 'sorry, sorry!' Fenris had grabbed her arm and shook her, demanding her attention.

"Hawke, what is going on?" His tone made it seem less like a question and more like an order.

"Fenris, these are our friends, from Kirkwall. They're..." the urge to laugh nearly overwhelmed her. "They're rescuing us."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Rescuing?" The term seemed foreign to him.

"That's right, Elf. Sorry to crash the party and all, but we needed a big distraction. Your boy Feynriel very kindly provided us with the biggest one we could ask for," Fenris spun at the unfamiliar voice, but Hawke was already speaking to the dwarf, looking astonished.

"Wait, _Feynriel_ did all this?" She asked; stepping to one side as Varric sank a bolt into a magister's eye socket, then turning and plunging her own blade into a guard's head as he charged towards her sister. She spun back to the conversation as though nothing had happened, as did the dwarf.

"Hey, he didn't do _everything_. But about a month ago I got a letter from him, saying exactly where you were and that he wanted to help. He offered his fancy ball to act as a cover, and sent us all personal invitations, due to 'services rendered to help him achieve his current greatness' or some such grand, political shit. So we called in several favours, Rivaini collected her crew-" here, Varric nodded at one of the several ruffians causing hell amongst the mages, cutlass in one hand, a flask of whiskey in the other while Hawke grinned. "- we sailed to Tevinter – with a suspiciously strong tailwind the whole way, I might add, it took half the time it should've to get here. We spent a day setting up with dreamer boy's help, and then tonight, courtesy of the guest of honour himself, we walked right in."

Hawke was shaking her head in disbelief. "I'm half inclined to think this is the Fade, but..." she trailed off.

Varric decided to help her out. "But you couldn't have dreamt up such a perfect replica of the paragon of manliness, I know, I know."

Hawke laughed, pulling Fenris out of the way of a bolt of lightning that had started forking out between various guards, waving at Anders to let him know she _was_ making sure he didn't fry Fenris 'by accident'. He waved back almost cheerfully, then returned to wreaking havoc with a savage glee. He might have been becoming progressively worse through the years, more fanatical about mage rights and freedom, but he'd never gone quite so far as to see the Imperium as a good example of mage freedom. He certainly didn't seem to have any qualms about cutting the magisters down, anyway.

"I was thinking more along the lines of not being able to recreate the stench of electrocuted flesh and burnt hair, but your one works just as well," she admitted. She was about to continue when a brown blur darted out of the crowd and collided with her shoulders, sending her staggering backwards into Fenris as she struggled to hold up the weight of an ecstatic mabari trying to lick her face.

"Dumat!" She gasped, laughing and hugging the huge dog, unconcerned that the hound's affection was leaving smears of blood all over her face and looked about ready to knock her over. Fenris steadied her, staring at the animal in bafflement.

"You own a mabari? Called _Dumat_?"

"Yes, and yes, but that's a tale for later. _Down,_ pup, we're meant to be fighting!" She said, and the bear of a dog dropped obediently to all fours, though he fell immediately into a canine bow and continued to wriggle with glee at being reunited with his owner. Fenris thought that no dog could look further from a 'pup' than this one.

"Wondered where he'd got to. We had to smuggle him in through the kitchens with the crew – apparently no dogs or pirates are allowed at parties," Varric explained as Hawke sent Dumat back into battle. The hound left with an enthusiastic bark, charging back into the fray. Fenris saw at least two guards fly forwards, knocked off their feet by the barrelling dog.

It was as he was following Dumat's progress that a covert movement at the far side of the room caught his eye.

Fenris gripped Hawke's arm tightly, his gaze focused on the opposite side of the ballroom.

Danarius, missing his mask, was ducking through a side door, accompanied by a squadron of guards. Hawke followed his attention, watching as the door slammed shut, before turning back to Varric briefly.

"Cover us?"

"Anything for you, Hawke."

With that promise secured, she pulled Fenris aside to the closest wall, where they could at least protect their backs. Varric followed a few steps, then stood taking out possible threats, letting them talk in relative safety.

"What do you want to do, Fenris?" She asked seriously. He looked at her, almost dazed.

"What?" He'd heard; he just didn't understand what she was asking.

"Danarius. What do you want to do; protect him or not?" She held his gaze unwaveringly, and could see the conflict there. "These are our friends, Fenris, and I fight with them. They came here for us. I intend to leave, but I'm not going without you, and I am not leaving Danarius alive. I asked you before if you trusted me, and you gave me a half-answer. I need your full one now." Please. _Please._

"I- " He stopped, not wanting to give her an instinctive answer he would regret later.

'_I don't know!' _How could he make such a pivotal decision, in an instant? He wasn't even accustomed to making his own decisions, let alone changing the course of the rest of his life! Serving Danarius was all he knew...but in a past life, he'd tried to kill his master. He'd spent seven years in the company of these strangers who had turned up to save him from a life he wasn't sure he was ready to leave.

He stared at Hawke, hoping for an answer there. Her expression didn't change from one of impartiality, but she reached out to take his shaking hand.

Hawke. Still a mystery with everything revealed to him.

He didn't love her, but he had. She was his past, but could be his future.

She wanted his master, _their_ master dead, because he should never have been their master in the first place.

What was he supposed to do?

He drew in a quaking breath that tasted of sulphur, ozone and blood. He had to break things down as simply as possible.

In the end, it was slavery or freedom. Fear of the unknown or trust in the woman he knew. Danarius or Hawke.

He remembered her standing there with a bitter laugh, arms folded across her chest to protect her bruised heart from him, saying she was still here because she couldn't abandon him. He still didn't know what he'd done to inspire such loyalty.

All he knew from his master was pain and humiliation.

He looked out at the chaos of the battle, everything seeming hazy and distant, muted. This was the biggest chance to escape any slave had since Andraste's first Exalted March and Shartan's uprising. He should be rushing to defend his master, should see nothing but disorder and destruction in this.

He was excited. Something dark and quiet was fluttering in his chest, keen to join the carnage, to fight _back_, see the magisters fall. To not squander this opportunity. Something on the verge of tearing free, of flooding him with purpose and anger.

It terrified him. Yet what was a night of terror to a life of one?

"_Venhedis_," he swore, and gripped her hand tightly. "My answer remains the same – I can't trust you with Danarius' life." He saw the flicker of tension, something starting to close behind her eyes, and rushed to finish. "_But_... I am not so sure I can trust myself either." Her hand went slack in his, hope rising in her eyes. Her open mouth was silent, not daring to speak even as her eyebrows lifted in a mute plea. He smiled, squeezed her hand. "I am with you, Hawke. Whatever happens."

He watched as she stopped, not quite daring to believe, and sheer elation lit her face.

He wasn't exactly sure how it happened, but suddenly she had her arms around his neck and was holding him tightly as his arms waved uncertainly at his sides, not knowing what to do with them.

He finally settled on placing them awkwardly around her back, but he only relaxed and turned it into an embrace when she turned her head and whispered 'thank you, Fenris' into his ear.

Then the sounds of battle reached them again and they drew apart, taking a moment to just look at each other before turning back to the fray.

Hawke's eyes narrowed when she saw Varric hastily stuffing what looked like a scrap of paper and a pencil into his pocket and quickly re-aiming Bianca, shooting a random mage in the leg then, with a wince at his bad cover up, let Aveline finish the job whilst Sebastian covered her back from the nearest wall.

"Varric..." Hawke's tone was nothing short of threatening.

He gave her a 'I couldn't help it' shrug and tried to talk his way out of it. "It's good material! And I didn't get any words, just a sketch. No details either. Besides, I'm sure Rivaini's going to do far worse with what she got than I will," he added in a burst of inspiration, nodding to the pirate who was in the midst of stabbing a shade in the back while Merrill distracted it with bolts of lightning. A small book was half-stuffed into the pirate's already tight top, but as the mage toppled to the ground, Isabela stopped and shoved the notebook unceremoniously further into her cleavage. She caught the three of them watching, sent them a sly wink, then was off again, running to engage one of the remaining guards.

"You two are incorrigible," Hawke muttered. Varric grinned.

"But you love us anyway. Speaking of anyways; we'll finish things here. You two have a score to settle and as much as I love a good story, we're needed here, and we can't risk that slimy son of a bitch escaping now. We'll catch up as soon as we're done," he promised. Hawke nodded, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hang on, though. You might need these," he said, reaching into an inside pocket of his duster, pulling out a familiar set of throwing knives. "We picked some up from your estate before we left, figured you might want them if we had to fight our way out." He handed the pair over with a smile, then whistled. "Oi, Rivaini! There's these as well," he said in an aside to Hawke.

The pirate turned, frowned as a guard charged her, kicked him in the crotch, then jogged over, leaving Anders to put the moaning man out of his misery.

"Sweet thing! You look terrible," was her cheery greeting to Hawke before she turned her attention to Fenris. "_You,_ on the other hand-"

"Isabela!" Hawke protested, while Fenris' eyebrows vanished behind his hair. The pirate winked, then finally turned to Varric.

"You called?"

"That I did, Rivaini. I believe you've got something of Hawke's. Two somethings, actually."

"Ah," Isabela's eyes glinted, and she reached to unbuckle the additional belt at her waist. It was only then that Hawke realised Isabela was carrying two extra blades – very familiar ones.

"My daggers!" She sighed, reaching to accept Finesse and its Dalish twin, quickly discarding the Tevinter blades Danarius had given her. "I don't believe you brought them with you," she laughed, slipping them into their scabbards.

"We're miracle workers. Broody, Aveline's got your sword. You'll have to grab it from her. Don't worry about us, and have fun. Now get going," Varric ordered, waving them off as Isabela darted back into the fight, ducking a fireball as she went.

"Sorry!" They head Merrill wail, right before she summoned her cage of thorns to ensnare a rage demon, digging up the mosaic on the floor.

Laughing, Hawke turned to Fenris, a stamina draught already uncorked. She lifted it towards him in a pointed gesture, and he grabbed one of his own.

"Ready?" Hawke asked. Fenris nodded, and they downed the potions before discarding the empty flasks and running towards the room Danarius had vanished into.

Hawke found Aveline on their way across and took out a mage that was trying to freeze her friend in place.

"I had it under control, Hawke," Aveline complained, but there was a glint of amusement in her green eyes.

"Do you have Fenris' sword, Aveline?" Hawke asked, straight to business with a smile.

The Guard-Captain grinned and gave Hawke her long sword and shield to hold before drawing the greatsword off her back and handing it over to the elf, the Prince of Starkhaven and Bethany working to cover the Captain whilst she was unarmed.

Fenris took the blade of mercy with a kind of reverence, finding its balance and feel familiar. The start of a grin twitched at his lips as Aveline reclaimed her weapons.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. She shrugged the thanks off casually, catching a guard's arrow on her shield before Sebastian cast a retort through the man's throat.

"You can thank me by kicking that bastard's arse. I only wish you two hadn't got first claim," she replied with her usual calm wryness and a nod towards the door. Needing no more encouragement, Fenris threw away the sword Danarius had given him and settled the blade of mercy into a ready grip as Hawke drew her daggers.

Without needing to consult each other, they hurried across the battlefield and reached the door without any problems, leaving crumpled guards, mages, shades and demons in their wake. Hawke hadn't even had to point out which mages were theirs – the Kirkwall mages clothing separated them from the finely dressed magisters without the elf needing to see which side the three of them were attacking.

The door was locked. Fenris broke the lock with the pommel of his sword but the door barely budged. Barricaded, then.

Hawke stared at it for a second in frustration, but Fenris snorted in amusement. Rather than answer her curious 'what', he told her to mind his weapon, then activated his markings fully.

He phased through the door, and the heavy desks and cabinets that had been shoved in front of it, solidifying with a gasp. That was the largest obstruction he'd cleared. He spent a few seconds checking he hadn't harmed himself, nodding in satisfaction when everything seemed fine bar the exhaustion. A stamina potion took care of that, after which it was a matter of a few minutes work to drag all the furniture out of the way and open the door to admit Hawke, who gave him a somewhat stunned look as she handed his sword back.

"Since when could you walk through doors?" She asked; the half-whisper high with surprise. Fenris just shrugged.

"I couldn't before?" he asked. Hawke slowly shook her head. He just cocked his head in mild surprise. "Hm. Then I assume I gained this after the second ritual. Is it really so different from phasing a hand through a man's chest?"

"I... guess not," Hawke said, still looking like she'd been struck over the head with something heavy.

The room they were in was empty bar the makeshift barricade, but another door was set in the opposite wall. Opening it revealed a set of undecorated, stone steps. Hawke held out a hand to stop Fenris from advancing forward and dropped to one knee, carefully revealing a warded trap he hadn't even seen. It took her mere seconds to pull the trap apart safely, leaving it dismantled and the ward rendered obsolete.

Together, they advanced cautiously down the narrow stairway, reaching a third closed door at the bottom of the steps.

It was Fenris' turn to stop them. He closed his eyes and focused on his hearing, his right ear tilted towards the door.

Low, whispered voices, then another authoritative one cutting through them, leaving only tense silence.

Fenris opened his eyes and nodded to Hawke, motioning for her to step back. She did so unquestioningly, again making him marvel at the trust she placed in his decisions, before readying his sword and opening the door.

As predicted, two of the guards rushed him. Fenris blocked both blades, smirked, then shoved both men back. He was about to slice into one and let Hawke take care of the other when an imperious voice froze everybody's movements.

"Stop, men. Fenris."

Danarius was seated at the far end of the room in a large leather armchair that seemed out of place in the blank walls of the room.

Taking in the rest of the room, it was clear that it was built for safety, not luxury. There was only a simple bed, the chair Danarius occupied, and a large pile of sacks and barrels in one corner, presumably water and food that wouldn't spoil. The room was built to sustain one or very few people during a siege, yet still the magister seemed as relaxed as though he were seated in his own study.

Then the mage's eyes shifted to look over Fenris' shoulder.

"Do come in, Champion. I prefer to have all my guards in the same place... or all my enemies." He acknowledged as the rogue entered the room. Hawke's expression gave nothing away as the magister continued, an idle curiosity marking his tone. "Tell me, my dear; which are you?"

The first emotion flickered into life on her face; a humorous half-grin that didn't show any teeth as she confidently spun one of her daggers in a practiced circle around her hand.

"Come now, Danarius, you're a smart man for a magister. I don't think you need me to tell you why I'm here."

She was enjoying this, Fenris realised. Revelling in her new freedom and companionship. She'd treated the battle upstairs with a casual experience, barely having to make a move to keep herself and her comrades – and him – safe; she knew each of their movements and could work with them, not around them.

Danarius sighed with a grudging nod, rubbing his forehead as though weary.

"No, I don't. Very well, Champion. Fenris."

The elf froze. He recognised that tone – it was an order, not a question. An order to kill.

Already, his muscles were tightening, preparing to take the swing. With a kind of terror, he stopped them, and stood staring at the woman. She was watching him, waiting patiently.

"It's your choice, Fenris," she murmured quietly, utterly ignoring the magister as Danarius realised his command had not been carried out.

"Did you not hear me, pet?" There was a dangerous edge of ice to his voice as he stared at the warrior, willing his compliance. "I want that traitor dead. Need I remind you what she did to your dear sister?"

His sister? For a moment, Fenris couldn't recall what the mage meant. Then he remembered. Varania, her throat cut, those eyes so similar to his own staring up at the ceiling.

He hadn't felt anything, other than a faint confusion at exactly who she was. The anger and feeling of betrayal had come later, from the _idea_ of family, not the reality.

Fenris knew, rationally, that Danarius was trying to turn him against Hawke. He knew that if the mage succeeded, Fenris would spend the rest of his life as a slave, and Hawke would soon be dead. He would be her executioner.

Something in him rebelled against the very notion. He found that he didn't even want to think what Hawke would look like, dead.

If he could picture his own family, his sister, dead without feeling any turmoil, but doing the same for Hawke made him feel sick, what did that tell him?

Danarius was wrong. And if he wanted Hawke dead, then he needed to die.

Finding his resolve had finally stabilised, Fenris' eyes cleared and he looked up, meeting his master's eyes squarely. He saw the flicker of surprise there. The words came easily, without thinking, surging up from the knot of fear and excitement beating beneath his heart. "That woman was not my sister. And you have controlled me for long enough." He settled into his battle stance, and felt Hawke do the same beside him. Even without looking directly at her, he knew she had a wide grin on her face.

If he hadn't been so focused, he might have laughed and shook his head. Only Hawke.

As it was, the four guards backed up to form a wall in front of their master, and the magister stood, erecting a shield around him with an angered wave.

"I want the elf ali-" They didn't give him time to finish speaking. Fenris lunged forward to engage the closest soldier, while Hawke smashed a smoke bomb at her feet, taking advantage of the confusion to ram her blades into the back of another guard. His armour was high quality, however, and one blade skittered straight off, while the other opened up an ugly, but not immediately damaging gash in his side.

Fenris' opponent had deflected the strike with only an instant to spare, leaving a heavy dent in the shield he had raised. From the man's pained shout and the dull crack Fenris had heard as he landed from his leap, he guessed he'd broken or fractured the guard's forearm by indenting the shield into it.

Then two guards were on him, and Fenris stopped analysing the fight, moving only on instinct and ingrained training. The only things that filtered through were where Hawke was in relation to him as she danced around her two opponents, and that Danarius had taken up a low murmuring while his shield lasted. Then Fenris had to dodge a slicing blow and he forgot the world outside the battle.

Hawke ducked underneath a two-handed swing of a greatsword that had been intended to take her head off of her shoulders, spun tightly in the confined space within the man's guard and stabbed backwards with both blades. This time, she punched beneath the armour and deep into his body. The guard choked as she pulled away and spun to face his colleague, collapsing to the ground, unnoticed by the remaining fighters.

Fenris slammed the pommel of his sword into one man's temple, knocking him down and almost senseless. The dazed man swiped clumsily for the elf's legs; Fenris jumped over the swing and landed on the guard's wrist, pinning his sword arm to the ground whilst he plunged the blade straight down, through the guard's spine.

Two guards down, Danarius' shield was thinning, and the shouts and explosions from upstairs were starting to die.

Both Hawke and Fenris noticed Danarius' flickering shield, and the spell building at his fingertips, and launched into their respective fights with increased viciousness. They didn't want to be taken unawares by an unknown spell.

Fenris knocked the guard's sword up, swinging around behind the man before he could recover.

Hawke gave a snarl of impatience and shoved her opponent aside, dropping one of her daggers and drawing one of the replacement throwing knives Varric had given her.

The shield flickered.

Hawke sighted and threw, the knife spinning end-over-end.

The shield died, the dagger plunged deep into Danarius' chest, and the spell exploded outwards in jets of dark light.

Fenris ducked, holding the guard in front of him as a shield. The man jerked in his grip and started screaming, but served his purpose. The spell didn't touch Fenris.

It slammed right into the other guard and Hawke.

Her body jack-knifed in the air, her eyes rolling up into her skull. The guard simply dropped to the ground, howling.

Fenris watched; his eyes wide as Hawke collapsed. Even as the spell's light died around them, he watched, willing her to get up.

She didn't move.

"No! Hawke!" His own desperate shouts mingled with the guards screaming.

'_Don't be dead. Please, don't be dead.'_

'_This is my fault.'_

With a snarl, Fenris turned to the magister, who was staring down at the hilt sticking out of his chest, trembling and gasping. Blood slowly seeped through the expensive silk. A separate river dripped from the man's wrist.

Barely aware that he was shouting, Fenris' marking blazed with blue light and he tore out the heart of the man he held. One screaming voice stopped as the body was tossed aside, and Fenris flew towards the magister, dropping his blade as he went. This was one he would kill with nothing but his hands.

He saw Danarius lift his head, alarmed, one hand lifting as though that would stop him. But he couldn't cast a spell on time; before the magic had even gathered in his hand, Fenris' claws had slammed into his chest around the knife and lifted the magister from the floor.

Fenris stared into the surprised, rapidly terrified face of the man who used to own him.

"You will never touch us again," he snarled, before snapping ribs and tearing muscle as he ripped the magister's heart out of his chest, the blade coming with it.

The limp figure dropped back, landing against the chair he'd occupied; his face going slack, his chest a ruin of bone and blood. Fenris barely saw any of it; he'd dropped the still convulsing organ and turned. Running the few steps to her side seemed to take eternity, the blood running from her moving faster than him.

_Not now, not after all this. Please, don't be dead. Please._


End file.
